Familiar Taste of Poison
by LaylaBinx
Summary: Steve becomes incredibly sick after a mission gone wrong and the others help him through it. Mostly my excuse for shameless Steve!whump and gooey team feels all around :p
1. Something in the Water

**Hello my dears! This story actually comes as a response to several different prompts on LJ so I just mushed them all together to make one long fic :D and God...there will be sooo much Steve!whump in this story its ridiculous! XD This is set somewhere right after the film where everyone is still kinda new to the idea of being on a team so, obviously, Steve and Tony are still clashing a bit lol. I'm going to try to keep updates as regular as I can but I'm finishing a Summer class (with a written final?!) and working on another story all at the same time so it might be a few days in between chapters! I'll try to update as soon as I can though! :D**

**Quick A/N: Okay, I'll be really honest: I have no idea how a water treatment plant works. I tried doing some research on them to write this first chapter and got the basics down but there were no pictures of the insides of the buildings so I'm kinda taking some creative licensing here and doing ye olde method of guessing. Turns out when you type in: _diagram of a water treatment plant_ or _structure designs of a fresh water treatment facility_, you kinda look like a terrorist so most of my searches turned up nil =/ Not wanting to risk men in shiny black SUVs showing up at my door and carting me away to a small room with no windows, I stopped my searches and just went to writing what I saw in my head. If anyone has ever been to a water treatment plant though feel free to tell me! I'd love to know how they work! (still not a terrorist) I'll explain more of Inman's plan in the next chapter too so never fear!**

**TL;DR version- I have no idea how a water treatment plant works so I'm flying by the seat of my pants here. I'm not a terrorist, I'm just a college student with way too much time on her hands. Also, Inman's crazy and we'll talk about him some more later.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing =/**

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The whir of the generators is deafening, the interlocking network of pipes and tubes stretching for miles overhead. The room smells heavily of chlorine as it treats the water in the pipes, the chemical mixture strong enough to make a normal man dizzy if exposed for too long. Steve barely even notices it.

He's running across one of the catwalks now, feet pounding across the metal grates and drains on the floor. Long, metal pipes run across the ceiling and along the walls, surrounding him on all sides and leading to a large tank in the middle of the room. There's a heavy rumbling of machinery and turbines and the air seems to vibrate around him as he runs. The main tank should be right up ahead, in the center of the complex. That's where he'll find him.

"Tony, I need your help down here," he mumbles as he runs, bounding up a metal staircase two and three steps at a time.

"Just a sec, dear. I'm in the middle of something," Tony's voice sing-songs back over the earpiece and Steve frowns.

"Tony, I'm serious."

"So am I. Keep your star-spangled pants on and I'll be there in a minute."

Steve is about to retort when he reaches the landing of the staircase, his eyes drifting across the flat platform and landing on the solitary figure standing near the edge of the tank. The man's back is to him, shoulders straight and head held high like he's a casual observer in all this. His clothes are spotless and he's leaning against the railing surrounding the tank carelessly like a tourist taking in one of the popular hot spots. Had it not been for the fact that he'd shot two of his coworkers and planted a bomb in the middle of the complex, Steve would have almost mistaken him for a worker who had gotten lost in the chaos.

The man hears him approaching and turns around, greeting him with a warm smile. He's in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair that matches the stubble of a goatee forming along his chin and jaw. He's small, his stature thin and wiry like a stick figure come to life, but Steve knows better than to assume anything about his appearance. This man was a murderer and he planned on doing something horrible in this building before the end of the day.

"Good afternoon, Captain," the man greets happily like he's been looking forward to saying that for a long time now. "So happy you could join me today."

"Dr. Inman," Steve began carefully, taking a cautious step forward toward the man standing near the tank. "Please listen to me. You don't have to do this. Whatever you have planned, whatever your intentions were…it doesn't have to be like this."

"Oh, but you see, it does," Inman says, smiling just slightly in a manner that was a bit maniacal. "This needs to happen, Captain. Don't you see? The people need to know. They need to know how vulnerable they are, how helpless their lives would be without my direction. They need to understand that I'm doing this for their own good, just so they understand their faults."

Steve takes another step forward but suddenly there a gun pointed in his direction, the barrel aimed at his head. "Please don't come any closer, Captain. I've already had to shoot two people today and I can tell you I'm not anxious for you to be the third. It's a nasty business, guns. My method is so much more powerful…it has a much bigger message."

Steve stops, weighing his options carefully. He needs to get Inman away from that tank, prevent him from doing anything that might affect the water supply. The swirling tank of water behind him emptied out into the pipes that brought clean tap water to millions of people in upper New York. Steve wasn't sure what he was planning but it couldn't be good, whatever it was. Inman had already attempted to bomb one of the other buildings, it wouldn't be outside the realms of possibility for him to do the same thing in here. "Tony, anytime you could get over here would be great. I could really use your help down here."

"Little busy here, Cap. Doing some pretty delicate work on this end."

Steve inwardly cursed and turned his attention back to the crazed scientist standing a few feet away. "What is this message you're trying to send, Dr. Inman? What are you planning to do?"

Inman smiled that same calm, slightly chaotic smile and kept his gun leveled at Steve's head. "Oh, my dear Captain, my plan is already in motion. It's been in the works for weeks now but today it takes its first steps into completion. All it really took was a bit of tinkering here and there; a few settings changed here, a filter moved there. All completely unnoticed by the "professionals" who are supposed to work in this building." His voice takes on a bitter tone, one full of anger and loathing. "They knew I was right, they knew that our system was weak and flawed and too easily corrupted."

"I tried to tell them. I tried to explain the faults in the machinery, the chinks in the armor that would eventually lead to our downfall. I told them how easy it would be to destroy the entire system and no one would even know. It could go unnoticed for days, kill hundreds if not thousands by the time it was over. I did tell them. And do you know what they did to me, Captain? They fired me. They told me I was crazy and that I had become obsessed. They fired me without a second thought and turned me out onto the street." The gun shakes a bit at this point, the anger in Inman's voice making him appear even more unbalanced than he already was. He takes a deep breath and composes himself, rolling his shoulders back but never dropping the gun.

"But they forgot that it was my design that could bring this whole building to its knees, that I was the one who found all the weak spots in the system. They forgot that I figured out how to destroy everything and then they would be left to pick up the pieces. They called me crazy and I'm calling them fools."

The whir of the turbines and generators is deafening and Steve has to shake his head to clear the fuzziness from his ears. "Dr. Inman, it's not too late to stop this! We can work this out, we can find another way. You said you found weak spots in the system," Steve gestures vaguely with one hand, not even sure if this was the system Inman was talking about. "We'll show them to someone who can look into them properly. Please, you don't have to destroy it."

Inman smiles and simply shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Captain, but its far too late for that. They need to know that they were wrong, that this was their fault and no one else's. They need to see the bigger picture before anything else can be done. This is the only way, the only way they'll see the folly of their actions."

His grip on the pistol weakens then, just for a fraction of a second, and Steve sees his opening. Before Inman can regain his grip, Steve hurdles his shield toward him, ricocheting it off one of the nearest pipes and sending it careening toward the scientist. It knocks his feet out from under him and he topples to the ground, landing in a sprawling heap and reaching for the gun. Steve runs across the platform then, covering the distance separating them in a matter of seconds. Inman is just now getting to his knees, gun in hand, and trying to aim. Steve tackles him just before he shoots and there's a brief feeling of weightlessness as they both tumbled over the edge of the platform and land in the swirling tank of water below.

The brief second underwater is momentarily disorienting and when Steve's head breaks the surface, he gasps brokenly, coughing on the water he managed to inhale on the way in. Inman is a few feet away from him, caught in the swirling current as the water is pushed toward a large pipe at the back of the tank. Steve swims toward him, trying to call out over the roar of turbines. Inman isn't paying attention to him, he's too caught up in trying to grab hold of something, anything, along the edge of the tank that will anchor him in one place. The current is strong, pushing and pulling and dragging both of them ever closer to the pipe and Steve knows if they get sucked in, they'd both drown before anyone ever figured out they were in here.

His feet find some kind of traction along one side of the tank and he uses it to propel himself forward, grabbing hold of one of Inman's arms and dragging him more toward the center of the tank, as far away from the pipe as he can get. The undertow keeps tugging them under and both rise to the surface coughing and sputtering water. This can't continue, the whirlpool is so strong they're both losing energy fast and a few more dunks will be all it takes before they don't come back up. Steve sees an opening when they swirl closer to one of the rails, the metal bar holding strong to the platform surrounding the tank. He only has one shot at this so he has to make it count.

Using the strength of the current to his advantage, he pushes both he and Inman up the side of the wall and grabs hold of the bar. His hands are slick from the water, the material of his suit sliding across the metal as he tries to get a proper grip. Inman is thrashing in his arms, cursing him and yelling every kind of insult imaginable. Steve ignores him and lifts him up over the railing, dropping him in a sodden heap in the platform. Steve climbs up right after him, landing gracefully next to the raving scientist and hauling him to his feet.

"You fool! You Goddamned idiot! Do you have any idea what you've just done? You've ruined it! All my hard work! You've ruined everything!"

Steve rolls his eyes and responds with a single punch that knocks the scientist unconscious and silences his rants. Spitting out one last mouthful of water, Steve tosses Dr. Inman over one shoulder and walks away from the tank, leaving the roar of swirling water and machinery behind him.

**OOOOO**

Tony arrives just as a police officer is tucking Inman into the back of a squad car, landing gracefully in the parking lot like a knight in shining red and gold armor. "Oh good, you caught the bad guy," he quips as he walks forward, the visor of his helmet flipping back to reveal his face.

Steve doesn't look at him, he simply steps back away from the police car as it starts to drive away. He's soaked to the bone, the fabric of his suit clinging to him more than it usually does and darker in color thanks to the intake of water. The cowl has been removed and his hair falls forward into his face, sticking to his forehead in dripping wet tendrils. His face is flushed from exertion and he looks wet and miserable but otherwise unharmed.

Tony steps up beside him, clapping a hand on a wet, blue-clad shoulder and giving a charming grin to the line of reporters waiting just behind the police barriers, microphones outstretched and crying out for an interview. He looks at them evenly, all their questions rolling over him like the buzz of static electricity, and takes a steadying breath. He doesn't feel even the slightest hint of nerves or apprehension; he was born for things like this.

"Ironman, can you tell us what happened in there? Should the citizens be concerned about the stand off inside the water treatment plant?" One reporter asks, her eyes glued to the billionaire-turned-superhero right in front of her. She looks young, probably her first interview of this magnitude ever, and Tony flashes her a grin.

"No, the citizens shouldn't be concerned at all. There was a situation inside but it was handled by NYPD along with the help of the Avengers. All in a day's work for the city's favorite superheroes."

"Captain America, is there anything you'd like to add to that comment?"

Steve ignores them and shrugs Tony's hand off his shoulder, walking back toward the complex, away from the reporters and the police and everyone else vying for his attention. There's a confused silence, some of the reporters calling out after him, but Steve pays them no mind and keeps walking.

Tony frowns and follows him, glancing back over his shoulder at the rampaging reporters and slightly awe-struck police officers. He knew Steve wasn't big on interviews, even worse when cameras and flashing lights were involved, but PR was necessary for a team like the Avengers because it proved they weren't mindless vigilantes out to do more harm than good; it proved they were the good guys and that they were trying to help. "Uh, Steve? We should probably go talk to the press and tell them that the day was once again saved by Earth's Mightiest Heroes or something. The less you talk, the more rabid they get. Trust me, I've seen it first hand."

Steve ignores him and keeps walking, swiping a hand across his face and flicking water away. He coughs once, spitting a residual mouthful of water to the side as he continues to walk away.

"Hey, earth to Steve. Walking away from an interview used to placate the wary citizens of New York doesn't really reflect well on the Avengers. We need to do some explaining or they'll be at our throats for the rest of the week."

"Then why don't you go handle it, Tony?" Steve asks, never turning around and continuing to walk straight ahead like he knows where he's going. "After all, it's what your good at, right? Handling the situation on your own? Taking matters into your own hands?"

Tony frowns but keeps walking. "Well yes, I am pretty awesome all on my own but I don't see how that's an issue." He finally catches up to Steve and catches his shoulder again only to have the younger man shove him off with just as much dismissal as before. "Jesus, Steve, what the hell is your problem?"

"My problem is you!" Steve snaps, rounding on him them and facing him fully. "My problem is that you never listen to me and you constantly ignore what I tell you! You always do things your way with no regard for anyone else! God, you can be so selfish sometimes Tony!"

Tony quirked an eyebrow just slightly at the sudden outburst. "I'm selfish? Really? I'm sorry Steve, but while you were taking swimming lessons in the reservoir tank with Dr. Inman I was busy defusing a bomb. That's right: a bomb. I'm sorry if I fail to see how disarming a bomb that could have had the potential to easily destroy over half of this compound and cut off the water supply to all of greater New York is selfish."

"Clint and Natasha were sent to take care of the bomb, you were supposed to come with me," Steve counters, his eyes still dark with irritation and his tone still sharp and lancing like a surgical blade.

"And what if they'd failed, huh? They would have been blown up with the rest of the building. My suit protects me against trivial things like bombs and explosions, it made more sense for me to be there and disarm it than it did for Clint or Natasha to do it."

"And by doing so, you ignored a direct order."

"Is that what this is about?" Tony asks incredulously, a disbelieving laugh escaping his throat. "You're pissed because I disobeyed one of your orders? Because I took the initiative and did something more productive than following you into the reservoir room and talking down a scientist who's gone way over the deep end? That's what you're pissed about?"

"No, I'm pissed because I didn't know what Inman was planning on doing in that building and I needed you there for backup! I needed your help in case he had planted another bomb and decided to destroy the reservoir tank. In case he destroyed the pipes leading toward the city. I can only do so much on my own, Tony, and I needed you there in case he did something that required both of us to fix!"

"Well, Steve, in case you didn't notice, "in case" never happened! He didn't destroy the reservoir and he didn't plant another bomb. Lucky for us, Inman is more of a scientist than a bomb developer. That first one was a dud, it was little more than a chunk of metal with a few wires attached to it. Look, we all came out in the end with no trouble and we caught the bad guy so what does it matter if I didn't follow one of your stupid orders?"

"It matters because I needed you!" Steve cries irritably, an angry flush rising to his cheeks. "I needed your help, Tony! Why is that so hard to understand?" Steve shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose like he's trying to ward off an oncoming headache. It wasn't the first time Tony had seen that expression when he was involved. "Do you know why they drilled it into our head to follow orders in the army?"

"Oh, here we go…"

"Because out there it's not just you; its you and your unit. They taught us to follow orders because it meant the difference between life and death on the frontlines. If you made a mistake out there it wasn't just you who suffered, it was everyone. I'm not saying all this just to hear myself talk; I've seen way too many soldiers end up on the business end of a gun because they did something reckless and didn't listen to an order given."

"Well here's the funny thing, Steve, you keep forgetting that we're _not_ soldiers! None of us are! Clint and Natasha are the closest things we have to soldiers and even then, that is an extremely loose term to use around them! You keep going on and on about how great the army was and how it taught you so much and blah, blah, blah but we're not in the army. None of us are soldiers Steve, so stop comparing us to them!"

Steve just shook his head slowly and let out a long, tired sigh. "I know you're not a soldier, Tony. I know you're not one now and you never plan to be and I understand all that." Steve drops his hand, suddenly looking more worn and exhausted than he has in a long time. "But you _are_ my teammate and you're supposed to be my friend and I needed your help today but you weren't there…"

Tony doesn't do guilt or remorse if he can help it; it's a useless emotion that doesn't get you anywhere in life. It's like a rope tying a boat to a dock, tethering it in one place and never letting it go. Guilt can be all consuming and destructive and Tony has long since gotten past such trivial emotions. At least he thought he had because just then, with that look of disappointment and something close to hurt in Steve's eyes, he feels just a tiny spark of something that can only be described as guilt twist in his stomach.

Steve sighs and shakes his head again, bringing one hand up to card it through his still wet hair. His face is flushed from the outburst and he looks even more miserable than he had before. "Go back and talk to the reporters, Tony. Tell them whatever you like. I'm going for a walk…I'll meet you back at the Tower later." He turns to leave then and Tony feels like he should stop him and at least try to work this out before he goes too far but he knows Steve is just as stubborn as he is. The argument has ended for now but it certainly wasn't over. They'll be back to verbally sparring with one another in an hour, tops. That thought alone is enough to make the guilt vanish and Tony is suddenly right back to his previous self.

"Whatever, Steve," he mutters, rolling his eyes and flipping his visor back down. He turns on one ironclad heel, walking back toward the gaggle of reporters toward the front of the building. He knows Steve will get over it; this certainly isn't the first clash they've had about leadership in the past couple of months. It'll work itself out in the end, of that Tony has no doubt, but he's not going to be the first to apologize or back down on this matter. Steve needs to understand that he can't be the boss all the time; sometimes orders are meant to be broken. "JARVIS, call the CEO of Caitlin Enterprises and tell him we'll have to push our meeting back to 4:30 this afternoon. And see if you can get in touch with Rhodey about tomorrow, I need his help testing a new prototype."

"Yes sir."

"Also, get in touch with the Bankman group and tell them I won't be able to make that presentation today. This whole mess with the water plant terrorist has completely screwed up my schedule for the next three days…"

"Sir."

"Oh yeah, call Pepper and tell her our dinner reservations might have to be later tonight. I'm probably going to be stuck in that meeting at least until 8."

"Sir."

"What JARVIS?"

"Sir, it appears Captain Rogers is experiencing some form of physical distress."

"What?" Tony asks to no one in particular, whirling around and looking back in the general direction he'd left Steve. The soldier is nowhere to be seen and Tony is jogging back before he realizes his feet are moving. "Where is he, JARVIS?"

"Approximately 15 feet ahead of you, sir."

Tony sees him then, crumpled onto his knees and gripping the ground with both hands like he's stuck on merry-go-round that's going too fast. Tony skids to his knees next to him, dropping down and placing both hands on Steve's shoulders. "Steve? Hey, look at me. What's wrong?"

Steve shakes his head weakly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. His face is beaded with sweat and his cheekbones are stained with a bright flush of color. "I don't know…I…" He winces, gritting his teeth and hunching forward a bit more. Tony was pretty sure if he wasn't kneeling right in front of him Steve would have toppled forward onto the ground

Bright diagrams fill his line of sight and it outlines a picture of Steve's body along with a readout of his vital signs. Tony frowns, noticing his heart rate and blood pressure are skyrocketing and his temperature is climbing by degrees with each passing second. "Steve, hey, listen to me." He cups the younger man's face, frown deepening when he can feel the intense heat filtering through the metal. "What's going on? Did you get hit? What happened?"

Steve looks at him then but his blue eyes are glazed and bright with fever. He shakes his head a bit, swaying even though he's sitting. The movement is jerky and uncoordinated and Tony has to keep a firm grip on the younger man's arms to keep him from pitching to the side completely. "Hey, easy," he whispers, hands still clamped on the delirious younger man's shoulder. "Its okay. I'm right here, its okay."

"Howard…?"

Tony feels the bottom drop out of his stomach at that one word and his blood turns to ice in his veins. Steve had called him Howard…he'd confused him with his _father_, someone he knew back in the 40's…this was bad. "No, Steve, hey…look at me." Tony ducks his head a bit so he's in Steve's line of sight, hoping the proximity will jog Steve's memory enough for him to recognize him. "Its Tony, remember? Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and all around royal pain in your ass?"

There's no recognition in Steve's glassy, fever-hazed eyes, no sign that he's even really aware of anything around him. Then, just as his gaze finally land on Tony's face and there's the smallest hint of recognition, his eyes flutter weakly and roll up into the back of his head. Steve sags forward in Tony's arms and its only the fact that he's right there to catch him that Steve doesn't face plant into the ground. Tony lets out a startled "oof!" and catches him awkwardly, metal-incased arms wrapping around Steve's broad shoulders and trying to keep him off the ground.

The fever is burning through his suit, making his own skin uncomfortably warm and he knows this isn't a normal illness. Something happened in that tank room and Steve had been exposed to it. Something happened and Tony wasn't there…

"JARVIS, get in touch with S.H.I.E.L.D and tell them to get the medical wing ready. Make sure Banner is there when we arrive. Tell them Steve's down and I'm not sure what's wrong with him."

"Yes sir."

Tony manages to get to his feet, Steve still limp and dangling in his arms. "Hold tight, super soldier," he mutters, more to himself than Steve as he's pretty sure Steve is far too unconscious to hear him right now. Keeping a firm grip on the unconscious, feverish soldier in his arms, he blasts off the ground, leaving a sizable crater in the sidewalk, and flies off in the direction of the Helicarrier_._

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**Poor Steve, I'm really going to put him through the ringer in this one...Hope you all like it! :D**


	2. Germ Warfare

**Hello all! I'm sorry it took me so long to update, had to finish up with summer school O.o Okay, so there's not too much action or Steve!whump in this chapter unfortunately but it was necessary in order to lay the groundwork for Steve's mysterious illness and outline Dr. Inman's grand plan. I just want to point out that I'm making all of this up from the top of my head; I have a very, very basic knowledge of how germ theory works but its been several years since I studied that (I changed my major from microbiology to history four years ago, I'm kind of at a loss XD) So, long story short, this germ/organism thing is completely my own creation and I'm taking some artistic license as to what it can/cannot do lol ^.- There will be a lot more Steve!whump in the next chapter, I promise! I've already started working on it so hopefully it'll be up either tomorrow or this weekend at the latest!**

**Hope you all like it! :D**

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"It doesn't make sense. How can he be perfectly fine one minute and damn near comatose the next?" Tony asks, pacing nervously across the tiny makeshift lab set up in the middle of the medical wing. There's a row of desks littered with microscopes and vials pressed up against one wall, scientists and specialists crowded around each station like moths to a flame. Steve is less than twenty feet away, separated from the scientists by a pane of glass that seems horribly thick yet ridiculously flimsy all at the same time. No matter how many times Tony tries to look away, his eyes are always drawn back to Steve.

The soldier isn't completely unconscious anymore but he's nowhere near coherent, tossing and turning fitfully on the thin, unforgiving mattress of the hospital bed. They'd stripped him of his suit, maintaining the decency to leave him in his underwear, but even that small amount of material seemed oppressive to the restless young man on the table. His skin is red and flushed, coated with a thin layer of sweat that covers every square inch of him, and he thrashes miserably in the tangle of sheets. They'd managed to get an IV hooked into him but it had been ripped out at least twice by now, Steve's fever-addled mind making him not to the easiest patient in the world to deal with. It had all happened so fast, a matter of minutes really, and Tony was simply baffled by the complete decline of their normally healthy leader.

Bruce seems just as much at a loss as Tony is, his eyes never straying too far from the fever-riddled young man on the bed. He'd been the one to greet them the minute they got there, whisking Steve away to the medical wing and assigning himself the title of primary physician to their ailing teammate. He'd ordered the administration of several drugs, mostly to combat the fever, but seemed at a loss for what to do in the meantime. Until they could identify the cause of the illness, it was difficult to recommend any form of treatment. "They're running some blood tests now; we just have to wait for the results to figure out where to go from there."

"Oh yeah? And how long is that going to take? An hour? A day? Meanwhile we just sit here and watch as Captain freakin' America suffers the same fate as Dr. Inman?" Tony's tone is accusing and he knows it but he can't keep the irritation out of his voice. Minutes after they'd arrived at the helicarrier the call had come in that Dr. Inman, who had been experiencing symptoms similar to Steve's while being detained by the police, had suffered a grand mal seizure in the back of the squad car and had been declared DOA by the time they reached the hospital. His death had been a stark reminder of what Steve had been exposed to, whatever it was, and it was affecting him just as badly. Bruce had seen to it that preventative methods had been taken, ordering both a crash cart and a high dosage of anti-seizure medication, fully prepared to deliver it to Steve in case the worst came to pass. It didn't make either of them feel any better though. "You'll forgive me if I'm not too happy with that plan of action."

"Well, what do you propose we do, Tony?" Bruce asks, rounding on him and tearing his eyes away from Steve's fitful form for the first time since he'd arrived. "We can't do anything until we know what's wrong with him. Giving him treatment for the wrong illness can be just as devastating as the disease itself."

"Oh, I don't know, I think a seizure followed by death is a pretty devastating outcome as well," Tony snaps and deep down he knows he shouldn't be taking it out on Bruce but he can't help it. That nagging, twisting feeling of guilt is still roiling around in the pit of his stomach, reminding him over and over again that if he'd been there, if he'd just listened to what Steve had said and gone to help him take down Inman, then maybe Steve wouldn't be laid up in a hospital bed caught in the grips of a 104 degree fever. He hates it, hates the feeling that in a way this is all his fault, and that there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Steve is here because he didn't listen and because he did things on his own and that does not sit well with Tony Stark.

Bruce is just opening his mouth to retort when a young scientist approaches them from behind, bouncing on the balls of his feet with barely contained excitement. "Excuse me, Dr. Banner? I think I found something you might want to take a look at."

Both Tony and Bruce turn to face him and damn, he's just a _kid. _He has short-cropped blond hair and big brown eyes and he looks like he just stepped out of a catalogue advertising a back to school sale. He looks like he got recruited directly out of high school, just mastered his first venture with a razor, and still gets all geeky and awkward when talking to pretty girls. Still, there's a certain confidence in his expression, a certainty that he should be here and deserves to wear that goofy, white lab coat that makes both of them follow him back over to the microscope indicated.

"I was running some tests on one of Captain Rogers' blood samples and noticed something affecting the cells," the scientist/biologist/kid explains as they both step up to the microscope. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen before, nothing natural at least."

Bruce is hovering over the microscope, peering down at the slide of glass on the plate intently. He brings the slide closer, pulls it back away, and then brings it closer again. Tony loses count of how many times this happens before he turns back to Sid the Science Kid.

"It's kind of incredible, really. I mean if I didn't know any better I'd say it was manmade because its definitely nothing I've seen in all my research and-"

"How old are you?" Tony asks out of nowhere and the kid looks genuinely taken aback.

"Uh…25 in October. Why?"

"25, huh? And tell me, how much experience do you have in this field? How do we know we should trust your opinion on this? 25 years old? Shouldn't you still be paying off student loans or something? "

Sid the Science Kid looks confused for a minute more before glancing at Bruce's hunched shoulders. "Uh…Dr. Banner reviewed my credentials himself. I worked for the CDC for three years in the virology department; I think I'm pretty qualified to-"

"Jackson, it's alright," Bruce says from his place over the microscope, his eyes never leaving the slide attached to the plate. "Tony's snark level tends to go up about twenty degrees when he's worried."

"It does not…" Tony mutters defensively though he can't really deny it outright. He does tend to get a lot more sarcastic and snappier when he's concerned about something. Still, he didn't think he was that easy to read and Banner brushes it off like its nothing. Jerk.

"Tony, come take a look at this," Bruce says, taking a step back from the microscope and motioning the other man forward. Tony steps up and looks into the eyepiece, momentarily blinded before his eyes focus on the collection of red cells floating around on the glass slide. They're all shifting and moving, bumping into each other and bouncing back across the glass slide. It's mesmerizing in a way but he's not seeing anything to indicate any abnormalities.

"Okay, it kinda looks like a lava lamp. So what?"

"Look a bit closer," Jackson says, adjusting one of the knobs on the side and bringing the slide closer to the lenses.

The blood cells become magnified and suddenly Tony can see it. It's small, smaller than the blood cells themselves, but its most definitely mixed in with them. It looks like a protozoan or some other single cell organism and its drifting around among the blood cells, replicating and attaching itself to the cell walls. There's hundreds, if not thousands of these tiny particles mixed in with Steve's blood cells and they're latching onto the healthy cells a lot like parasites. Its unusual, yes, but Tony's not a biologist nor is he anywhere comfortable admitting he knows what he's looking at. Bruce seems to understand and Jackson definitely does but Tony's at a loss. "Okay, so what's so special about it?"

Jackson steps up again, adjusting something along the side of the microscope and plugging what looks like a computer cable into the side of it. Almost instantly, the images of Steve's blood cells pop up on the computer screen a few feet away. "The structure of this organism is not naturally made, its been artificially created," Jackson explains and he points out a few things that Bruce sees and Tony doesn't. It still looks like a collection of blood cells to him; creepy, face-hugger-alien-germ infected blood cells but blood cells nonetheless. "-so Dr. Inman found a way to manufacture this organism and was planning to release it into the water supply."

"Wait," Tony steps in at this point because there's a definite problem with this theory. "The filtration system in that complex is top of the line, its supposed to catch anything and everything that gets into the water. How was he planning to get it past filters designed to catch even a spec of dust that gets mixed in with the water?"

"Well, see, here's the beauty of it," Jackson goes on, pointing out the organism again. "The cell was created to shift and alter its appearance so it wouldn't be detected by the filters. All tap water, no matter how filtered and purified it is, still contains trace amounts of minerals and heavy metals pulled from the earth; its impossible to remove all of it. Dr. Inman found a way to make this particle so insignificant, so unnoticeable, that it would manage to get past all the filters in the system. Its designed to look exactly like one of the minerals that gets ushered through. The chemicals wouldn't affect it that strongly, they're only used to get rid of larger, more noticeable quantities of bacteria and germs. He was planning on releasing it into the water supply and infecting the whole city."

"Lucky for us someone had the foresight to shut off the main line before he got too carried away with his plan," Bruce mutters, watching the shift and flow of blood cells and organism across the computer screen.

"Okay, so let's say that was his plan all along," Tony relents, watching another dot of the organism latch onto one of the blood cells on the screen. "Step 1: release the germ, Step 2: infect everyone in the city, Step 3: profit. He'd still need to get access onto the property, get into the room with the main tank and mix in the germ without anyone noticing him. He was fired for a reason, they thought he was mentally unbalanced. Checkmate there, scientists. Still, there's not a chance in hell they would let him back on that property long enough to ask the time of day, let alone release his own mini germ bomb to the city's water supply."

Jackson shakes his head slowly, looking back at the blood cells on the screen. "He'd need time to get there but more than that he'd need a key card to gain access to the building. That portion of the complex is shut off to everyone that's not authorized personnel and its not like he could just walk in and ask for the keys. He'd need inside access or-"

"A distraction," Tony cuts him off suddenly. "The bomb. It was a total dud; that thing couldn't have destroyed an office chair let alone a building. But it got everyone out of the complex and gave Inman the perfect opportunity to slip in unnoticed. The workers he killed had access to the main tank and he was able to swipe their cards in the midst of all the confusion." Everything was falling into place like pieces of a puzzle and Tony shook his head in disbelief. "That crazy bastard."

"Okay, but what did he hope to gain from all of this?" Bruce asks, glancing back at Steve who was still writhing fitfully on the bed in the next room. "So he poisons the city…then what? He'd go to jail and the whole thing would be a big waste of time on his part."

"Before he got fired he was raving about how easy it would be to infect the water supply," Tony interjects, folding his arms over his chest. "I read through his file before we left. He became so obsessed with the idea that he actually confronted the CEO of the company and threatened him if he didn't make some kind of alterations. He was demanding a raise for the discovery too; didn't sit too well with the big boss, I guess. Maybe he was trying to prove a point by doing it himself. Poison everyone in the city after you go on and on about how easy it would be and he was trying to come out on top in the end."

"Well, it didn't really work out in his favor," Bruce mutters grimly, looking back at the screen. "If the germ killed everyone it infected then he'd be left with countless first degree murder charges on his hands, not the love of a reformed company and grateful citizens."

"Well, not necessarily. I don't think he meant for it to actually kill anyone," Jackson interjects, pointing out something among Steve's blood cells. "See how the organism is latching onto the blood cells and kinda just riding along with them? Its not destroying them and its not changing their composition, its just piggybacking along the cell walls like a parasite, using the blood and plasma cells as host. The organism seems to work much in the same way the cold virus does; it has a timer. After a designated amount of time, the organism shuts off its replication trigger and it begins to die off. I think Dr. Inman planned on the releasing it into the water supply and letting it dilute itself enough through the pipes to where it wouldn't be a lethal amount to anyone pulling it from their kitchen sink. The organism would make countless people sick, yes, but it wouldn't kill anyone outright."

"Then why did it kill him? And why is Steve laid up in the next room with his brain trying to cook its way out of his skull?"

"Because they both had direct exposure to the organism when they were in the room. You said Captain Roger was wet when you found him?"

"Yeah?"

"Well if they fell in the water tank after Dr. Inman had mixed in the organism and the water wasn't traveling into the rest of the pipes, the concentration would have been ten times higher than anything gotten from a faucet in the city. The organism had already started replicating and multiplying in the water but it wasn't being diluted, it was all staying in the same tank. Being exposed to that much of it would cause the illness to be that much worse than if it had diluted itself along the pipes like it should have."

Jackson types a few commands onto the computer and the image of Steve's blood cells are enlarged even further. "Dr. Inman's dose was fatal because his body couldn't burn the organism faster than it replicated. It was destroying his cells rather than attaching to them. But Captain Rogers' metabolism makes it so that his body is producing new blood cells and burning off the old ones, the ones infected by the organism, faster than it can reproduce itself." Across the screen, as if to prove his point, a few new, uninfected blood cells appeared among the others already affected by the germ. "My best guess is that the organism only stays alive long enough to make the individual ill, it wasn't created to be fatal in any sense. Dr. Inman was just unfortunate enough to have direct contact with it after it was released."

"So Steve's not about to go belly-up like a big red, white, and blue goldfish?"

"To my knowledge, no," Jackson says, looking at Tony evenly across the lab. "I mean, yeah, he's going to feel pretty awful for a few days while the organism works its way out of his system but even with the concentrated dosage he was exposed to, his body will burn off the excess before it gets overwhelmed." There's some lingering hesitation in his voice and he shrugs one shoulder helplessly. "But that's just my theory. If this organism was truly manmade then we really don't know anything about it. Dr. Inman was the one who created it but we can't exactly ask for his advice on this situation."

Tony frowns, looking back at the semi-conscious soldier on the table. Steve is still tossing fitfully, mumbling incoherently as each nurse and doctor passes him by. He's talking about Inman's plan, about his intentions, trying to warn them of what had happened, but the words are coming out as a jumbled mess, running together and breaking apart in odd places. He's caught in the grips of a vicious fever, the evidence standing out clearly on his flushed skin, and he's still trying to warn everyone else about the impending disaster. Ever the diligent hero, worried about everyone else when he was the one stuck in the hospital wing being ravaged by an unknown illness. It makes Tony's stomach twist uncomfortably and he frowns. "So what do we do now? What's our next course of action?"

Jackson, who's had most of the answers until this point, shrugs helplessly and looks back at Steve. "We wait."

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**Once again, sorry for all the bio-babble guys! The next chapter will be more interesting, I promise!**


	3. Fever

**Hello my lovely dears! Since you guys are so awesome and I love you all very much, here's the next chapter! BTW, thank you all for bearing with me through the whole bio-babble chapter; it was totally necessary to pave the way for this bit right here ^.- Okay, so in my head canon (at least for the movie verse) Bruce seems to be the most logical and level-headed member of the team outside of Steve. He generally seems pretty calm and composed and therefore makes my nerd of a muse go "team dad! Bruce FTW!" So yeah, that's what happened there lol. Hope you all liked it! :D**

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Bruce sighs heavily and pushes away from the microscope, rubbing his eyes tiredly with one hand. The lab had emptied out for the most part, save for a few tagalong scientists here and there still running tests on the blood samples. Most of the other S.H.I.E.L.D agents had been called down to offer assistance to all the people in the city left without water thanks to the treatment facility shutting off the main line. The workers from the water treatment plant had no idea how long the main line would stay shut off, how long the city would be without water, and they were scrambling furiously to figure out a way to remove Inman's organism from the water before a full blown riot took place. Aside from a handful of agents left to maintain the helicarrier in their absence, the ship was essentially empty.

Bruce leans back against the chair, staring up at the vent near the ceiling for a minute to readjust his eyes from looking down the lenses of a microscope for too long. He'd been staring at a sample of Steve's blood for about an hour now, watching carefully as the tiny organisms replicated and attached themselves to the healthy blood cells floating by. True to Jackson's theory, Steve's blood cells were burning off the foreign particles faster than they could reproduce but they were still there and that meant he was still infected. They seemed to be dying on their own though, at least there was that. It meant Bruce didn't have to come up with a miracle cure anytime soon as long as Steve's body continued to heal itself.

He sighs and stands, wincing a bit as his back pops on the way up. He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting in that chair hunched over the microscope. One hour? Two? It didn't really matter; he's faced worse in his life, this is just another one of those days. He'd sent Tony away after the billionaire had snapped at a poor, unsuspecting scientist for the third time in under twenty minutes. Bruce knew he was frustrated and worried, hell, they all were, but a worried Tony made him anxious and volatile and his pacing made Bruce nervous. It reminded him of being in a cage, pacing back and forth like a wild animal confined to a small space. Everything was too close, four walls and only one exit and the pacing never stopped. It made him feel threatened and bad things tended to happen when he felt threatened.

He steps out of the lab and walks into the adjacent hospital room, breathing in the scent of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol. It wasn't a pleasant smell but it was different from the sterilized room of the lab so he welcomed it openly. Steve is still laid out on the bed, shifting ever so slightly here and there as another wave of fever washes through him. A line of IVs is threaded into one arm, each needle held in place by several pieces of tape. After ripping the line out for the third time, they'd finally clued in to tape it several times in order to hold it in place. Steve hadn't been coherent for much of his time in the hospital wing, the fever ravaging his senses and leaving him confused and slightly panicky. One of the doctors had suggested restraints and Bruce had adamantly ignored him. He wasn't going to restrain Steve because he was lashing out in his fever induced haze; he was pretty sure the kid barely even knew where he was let alone what he was doing.

He stops by the younger man's bedside, looking at the monitors recording his vital signs carefully. The fever had settled at 104.8 and Bruce had absolutely no doubt it would be much higher if they hadn't been pumping him full of drugs used to combat it. It hadn't gone up in over an hour but it hadn't gone down either which meant the constant heat coursing through his body wasn't doing him any favors either. Steve's skin is flushed, bright splotches of color standing out against his chest and face. He shifts uncomfortably a few times, something close to a wince crossing his lax features, and Bruce feels his jaw set a bit at the expression.

He'd hardened himself over the years in order to approach situations calmly and logically, never letting himself panic or get worked up for fear of the consequences. He'd been a doctor for a long time, he'd seen some truly terrible things in his profession, but it didn't make things any easier. It didn't make it easier to see a teammate and friend laid out on the bed before him, fighting a disease he had no idea how to cure. It didn't help that this was Steve; strong, smart, stupidly brave Steve Rogers who had told Bruce when he first met him that he didn't care about the fact that the scientist turned into a lumbering green monster when he got angry, all he cared about was Bruce's experience and him as a person. The same Steve Rogers who had "died" a national hero back in the 40's only to be resurrected some seventy odd years later and forced to fight for a world he didn't know. Tony gave him grief all the time, calling him "gramps" and "old man" in a teasing way but it didn't change the fact that Steve was still a kid, he'd disappeared in the prime of his life and still had all the memories of that life left in his head. Now he was here, decades away from the life he knew, the world he left behind, and he was expected to fight all over again. Sure, Bruce hated what he became when he got angry, hated that he had to control himself so rigidly in order to prevent total disaster and that he'd somehow been dealt this shitty hand in the game of life but at least he recognized this century. At least he'd been around for the technological advancements of the 21st century. He honestly didn't know how Steve handled it sometimes, waking up in a world that was so familiar and yet so completely foreign all at the same time. Sometimes he felt Steve had been given the worst hand out of all of them.

"Bruce…?"

The voice is soft, slightly scratchy from disuse, but it gets his attention nonetheless. Bruce looks down to see Steve gazing up at him, blue eyes glassed over in a haze of fever but he's actually focused on him. In that instant, Steve looks twenty years younger, small and tired and oh so frail, and its all Bruce can do to maintain his professional composure. "Hey Steve," he says quietly, pulling the chair pressed up against the wall closer to the bed so he can sit down. "How're you feeling?"

Steve frowns like he's confused and shakes his head a bit. "Hot…feel like my skin's on fire…"

Bruce nods slightly and reaches out to lay his hand on the younger man's arm. His skin is sweltering to the touch, impossibly hot and almost uncomfortable to come in contact with, but Bruce doesn't remove his hand. "That's not surprising, you've been running one hell of a fever for most of the night."

Steve blinks up at the ceiling, eyes opening and closing lazily like it takes a lot of effort. "…we get Inman?" He asks and its sounds far away, like he's trying to talk to someone across the room.

Bruce nods again. "You got Inman, Steve. You were the one who took him down. You did a good job today." He's patient, listening to the incoherent rambling silently. They'd all been dealing with this for the better part of the evening, listening as Steve furtively told them over and over that Inman was trying to do something to the water and that they needed to stop him. The fever was responsible for the memory lapse, the lack of new information, and Steve had gotten in a bad habit of repeating himself over the past few hours. "Inman can't hurt anyone else, Steve. You got him."

Steve doesn't seem to hear him and shakes his head slowly. "He was at the water plant."

"I know, you caught him and handed him over to the police. They were taking him to jail." Bruce decides to leave out the part about Inman dying on his way to the police station; Steve doesn't need that kind of weight on his conscience right now.

"He was trying to do something to the water…something bad…"

"I know, you told us he was talking about his plan. He's gone though, you don't have to worry about him anymore."

"I should have been faster…wasn't quick enough…"

Bruce frowns and looks back at Steve carefully. "Steve, none of this was your fault. You caught Inman and turned him over to the authorities. You did exactly what you were supposed to, don't be so hard on yourself."

Steve shakes head fitfully and stares back up at the ceiling. "I should have seen it…it would have made more sense…everything would be clear…"

"What would have made sense, Steve?"

"All of it…the water…he was…he…" His voice fades of and he isn't looking at anything anymore, he's just staring up at the ceiling muttering words that have no beginning and no end. This is a different reaction from before; Steve had gone from functional sentences to incoherent babble in under thirty seconds. Something was wrong.

Bruce frowns again and stands, hovering over the edge of the bed in Steve's line of sight and capturing his face very gently in both hands. "Steve? Hey, can you look at me?" He strokes the younger man's cheekbone with one thumb, hoping to gain some kind of reaction. "Steve, look at me. Try to focus on my face."

Steve blinks a few times, eyes glassy and dull in the grips of the fever. He tries to focus on Bruce's face and almost has it when they begin to flutter closed again. For a second, Bruce thinks he's just fading off into unconsciousness again like he had all the times before. Then the convulsions start.

Steve's eyes roll back into his head and his body stiffens suddenly, muscles rigid and back going ramrod straight. He starts shaking, a full-body tremor that starts from the core and ripples its way outward like cracks along a fault line. His back arches painfully, neck snapping back in a violent contraction of muscle and bone, and every joint is pulled in tightly. His jaw is clenched, breathing coming out in sharp, labored gasps, and his eyes are squeezed shut tightly. There's a noise somewhere between a cry and groan that wrenches itself out of his throat but the convulsions cut it off before it can complete itself. The hospital bed trembles beneath him, shuddering a bit with each violent contraction and tremor.

Bruce steps back quickly, pulling the monitors away from the bed to prevent Steve from accidentally colliding with them. One long arm flails outward, catching him in the stomach and doubling him over. Okay, so moving the monitors had been a good idea after all. Bruce winces, struggling to catch his breath after having it forcefully knocked out of him, but he doesn't move away. No matter how many times he's witnessed it in his life, it never makes watching a full blown seizure any easier.

The monitors are wailing next to him, shrill sirens bouncing off the close walls of the hospital room. The screen displaying Steve's vital signs is going haywire, his temperature spiking to 105.3 in a matter of seconds. Bruce just manages to yank off the remaining sheets from the bed to prevent Steve from becoming hopelessly tangled in them; he barely notices when the IV is ripped out for a fourth time.

A few seconds later, a team of nurses rush in and begin frantically tending to the ailing patient on the bed. One of them makes the mistake of getting too close, trying to move another monitor that was still dangerously close to the bed, and gets struck in the face by one of Steve's arms. The nurse staggers back, hands flying up to cover what is most assuredly a broken nose, and another nurse rushes to her side and pulls her away from the line of fire. They're all helpless until the seizure stops, succeeding only in keeping Steve from colliding with any of the nearby equipment.

It seems to last hours, not minutes, and there's a very brief moment of stunned silence when the seizure finally dies down and Steve goes still. Almost instantly, the medical team flies into action, Bruce leading the way. He grabs the stethoscope hanging from the corner of the crash cart, hooking it into his ears and pressing the diaphragm flat against Steve's chest. The younger man's heart is beating loud and hard in his ears, the rhythm a bit tremulous and uneven but there nonetheless. He moves it across his chest, listening to both lungs and satisfying himself that they're both clear and not flooding with fluid. Bruce lets out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and lets his head drop a little, shoulders slumping in a mixture of fatigue and relief. The beginning of the seizure had sparked a deep-seated, primal fear in him; the fear that this was going to be a mirror image Inman's death and Steve was heading down the same path. Devastating fever aside, though, it appeared Steve was still in much better shape than Inman had been when he'd been in custody.

He steps back just enough to help one of the nurses reattach the IV with more tape and administer an anti-seizure medication to the drip line. Steve is rearranged back on the bed, his head lolling back a bit with the movement but otherwise completely unresponsive to their ministrations. Another drug is added to the drip line a few seconds later, one a bit more powerful to combat the still dangerously high fever, and now all they can do is wait for it to take effect.

The medical team drifts out slowly, each one looking to Bruce for instructions before they go. He dismisses them easily, sinking into the chair beside the bed like a thousand ton weight had suddenly materialized on his shoulders. Its silent for a long time and Bruce contents himself to listening to the steady peaks and valleys of the heart monitor across the room. This wasn't the first time he's ended up by one of his teammate's bedsides in the past few months, keeping a silent vigil deep into the night.

Being a member of a team of superheroes and world's deadliest assassins meant that not a single damn one of them had an ounce of self preservation out on the battlefield. It was always "take a bullet" here and "deflect a bomb" there and honestly Bruce had lost count of how many times they all should have been killed more than once. Still, there was a very big difference between being brave on the battlefield and being broken in a hospital bed. He never really had to worry about Thor; the thunder god could have the Brooklyn bridge fall on him and wall away brushing off the dust. But seeing someone as strong as Tony or Steve or Badasses Forever like Clint and Natasha laid up in a hospital bed twisted something deep inside and Bruce didn't like it. It never made it any easier to see his friends and teammates in a state of such vulnerability.

Bruce sighs and shakes his head, leaning back against the chair and eying Steve carefully. The younger man's temperature had dropped to 105.1 which still wasn't great but at least it was going down. He seems to be resting though, another hopeful sign of the night, and Bruce doesn't quite feel like he's knocking on Death's door anymore. Its going to be a long night and he knows it but he doesn't necessarily care.

"You know, it's a full time job taking care of all of you," he mutters, knuckles brushing gently over the skin on Steve's fever-flushed forearm. Steve doesn't answer but Bruce didn't really expect him to either so its not a loss. He settles himself into a pseudo-comfortable position in the chair and watches Steve breathe for a long time.

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**Poor Steve...and I'm nowhere near done with him O.o More to come soon! :D**


	4. Delusions

**Wow, okay so this ended up being much darker than I had orginally intended. At first I was trying to write kind of a lighthearted chapter involving Steve hallucinating various levels of crazy shit in the hospital room and Natasha grudgingly having to deal with it but this came out instead. It got heavy and sad and depressing and that was totally not what I meant to happen! -_-x While writing this, I'm leaning more toward "hey, lets make people laugh a little bit; what do you think?" and my muse is like "nah bro, let's make it like a Nicholas Sparks chapter" and she won...that manipulative bitch! Anyway, that's what happened and this was the end result. I know Natasha is pretty OOC in this chapter but I figured she could let her guard down a bit since Steve is so sickly =/**

**Hope you all like it! :D**

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Natasha drums her fingers along the arm of the chair softly, one knee propped against the side and a book balanced in her lap. She's only half-interested in the print on the page, her eyes scanning paragraphs and going back to re-read them a few seconds later. It's a waste of time, she's not getting anything out of the plot or the characters, but she can't bring herself to set it aside completely. It's a distraction more than anything right now and she figures without it she'd be clinging to the walls.

She's the only one in the hospital wing at this time of night, all the other medical staff and scientists either asleep or down in the city. For all the foresight put into shutting off the main valve to the city, the workers at the water treatment plant weren't quite quick enough. A few cases of the water born illness had popped up in the neighborhoods closest to the facility and the S.H.I.E.L.D agents, along with a good majority of the medical staff were called down to help assist with the sick citizens. Bruce had been among the many members volunteered to go down and had asked Natasha to keep an eye on Steve in his absence.

Natasha frowns at that thought. 'Keep an eye on Steve' implies he's not well enough to watch out for himself and that bothers her. Its different for the rest of their team, it doesn't quite twist that knife as deep when they're involved. She and Clint are human, they always end up with their fair share of injuries during missions, and, though he'd be loathe to admit it, Tony is human too, so its not uncommon for him to end up in the medical with a few bumps and bruises of his own. Bruce had ended up here a couple of times but it was mostly post-Hulk related; for as much as he hated the Other Guy, it protected him from most of the more serious injuries he otherwise wouldn't survive out on the battlefield. Thor was a god so he never ended up in the medical wing and Steve was nearly on that same level in terms of health and regeneration. He was Captain freakin' America, he didn't get hurt or knocked out of commission in the face of danger. The serum was supposed to help him heal, keep him healthy and fighting longer than everyone else because that's what it was made for. Steve wasn't supposed to be in the medical wing. Ever. And he definitely wasn't supposed to be laid out on a hospital bed, looking like twenty miles of bad road and food poisoning. It just wasn't right and it made Natasha uncomfortable.

She glances up from the pages of her book again, eyes landing on the ailing soldier in front of her. He's hooked up to all kinds of monitors and IVs and he looks so damn small and vulnerable in that bed that she almost wants to unhook him from everything and whisk him back to the Tower and let him get better in peace. Wired up and monitored like that makes him look like a human science project for curious specialists who want to know how the serum works. It's a sickening thought and it sets her jaw in a tight line.

Bruce had told her about the seizure that happened earlier in the night and there had been a dark, almost haunted look in his eyes when he'd mentioned it. He was on the same ground she was; Steve was sick, Steve was in the hospital, and it was all just so damn wrong. It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone being filmed on the helicarrier and they were all unsuspecting extras.

Natasha shifts uncomfortably in her chair and finally gives up on the book, setting it to the side with a huff. She can't concentrate on it right now anyway so its pointless. God, she hates hospitals. She'd been in enough of them through the years to never see another gurney or heart monitor for the rest of her life and it would still be too soon. Hospitals are sterile and impersonal and they make her feel like she's trapped. Hospitals are where they perform experiments, test your limits, subject you to pain and then inject you with drugs you don't have a name for. They strip away your humanity and you are no longer John Doe to the staff; you become the "Patient in Room 3" and nothing more than a list of symptoms and medications accompanies your name on a clip board. Natasha had been in more than enough hospitals in her life, she wasn't eager to stay in this one longer than necessary.

She's really not good at this kind of thing anyway and she wishes Bruce had asked someone else to take up the watch but its pointless now. Between the public nearly rioting because of the suspension of clean water and the people who had gotten sick from Inman's organism, its all hands on deck down below. They're on shift rotation until further notice; only a handful of agents staying on the helicarrier at any given time while the rest are on the streets below, trying to quell the public outcry that's echoing through out the city.

Natasha had drawn the short straw in the helicarrier lottery and had been assigned to stay up here until the next rotation went down. When Bruce had found out she was staying, he's asked her personally to watch over Steve until he got back. It had been his candid way of saying that while he mostly trusted the other scientists onboard, he didn't trust them when he wasn't there. Leaving Steve in their hands was like leaving the Hope diamond in the care of a mailman. There would be nurses and other medical staff there to check on him throughout the night but he said it would make him feel better to have someone he trusted nearby in case things went wrong. He trusted her enough to leave their unconscious Captain in her care while he was gone and it was impossible to say no to something like that. It wasn't like she was doing anything else for the rest of the night and it should have been no problem to say yes but she hesitated to agree. It had nothing to do with Steve, she liked Steve and wanted to make sure he was alright just like the rest of them, but it also meant she'd be spending the night in the hospital wing. It would have been easier to ask her to stay the night in a Turkish prison.

Natasha stands, suddenly sick to death of the plastic chair she'd been sitting in. She paces around the room a few times, careful to avoid getting caught up in any of the numerous wires and cords running along the floor beside Steve's bed. She glances over at him a couple times, wondering vaguely if her frantic pacing is bothering him at all. Steve is twitching a bit on the bed, eyes darting around rapidly behind closed lids. He's dreaming, about what Natasha doesn't know, but she leaves him to it. After everything he'd been through today, the kid needs all the rest he can get.

Natasha walks over to the nearest window and looks outside at the sprawling expanse of the city down below. Its lit up like a Christmas tree, the lights bright and florescent in the late evening hours, and the calm appearance from the windows of the helicarrier is a complete lie compared to the chaos overtaking the streets below. She knows for a fact that SWAT teams had to be called in to prevent people from looting grocery stores for bottled water and that well over half the city was becoming militant because of the main water line being shut down. The scientists from the treatment facility had predicted it to take at least two full days to completely disinfect all the water and get the pipes running again. That meant 48 hours of unruly, angry citizens and a city without water. Thing just kept getting better and better…

She sighs and steps away from the window, glancing back at Steve. He's still in the bed, just like he had been the entire time she'd been here. His fever was still dangerously high but nowhere near where it had been earlier in the evening. It was currently hovering around 103.4 and hadn't fluctuated up or down in nearly three hours. One of the night nurses had come in an hour earlier to adjust one of the bags on his IV and told her that the drugs used to combat the fever were working and that he should be back to normal within a day or so. Natasha figures its somewhat of a good sign but she still doesn't like it. Steve is still sick and that's not okay.

The hospital room feels oppressive now, the walls closing in, and she feels that if she stays here any longer she really will be in danger of shooting the next person who walks through the door. The longer she stays in here, the more it feels like ants are crawling across her skin and she grinds her teeth together unconsciously. She doesn't want to leave Steve but she knows if she stays here any longer she'll lose it completely and that won't be good for anyone involved. There's a vending machine down the hall, a very short distance from the doors of the medical wing, and she figures it will give her just enough of a breather and change of scenery to get her through the rest of the night. Besides, at 4:17 in the morning, she's in desperate need of some kind of caffeine.

She takes one last look at Steve on the bed, eyes traveling over the unconscious soldier carefully. He's still doing that twitchy dream-thing so she figures he'll be fine for the next minute while she steps out. It won't take long, 90 seconds tops, and she settles herself enough to walk toward the doors.

The air in the hallway instantly feels cleaner and easier to breathe, more inviting than the oppressiveness in the hospital, and it's a change she welcomes openly. Natasha finds herself taking several deep breaths as she walks toward the vending machine, taking in the silence and the emptiness of the hall. At least she's here essentially alone; had there been a crowd of doctors and scientists in the hospital with her, she might have snapped someone's neck by accident. She could stand the night nurse, she'd met her a few times before and she seemed nice enough. Natasha thought her name was Carol or something along those lines. She'd make it a point to ask her they next time she same by to check on Steve.

The tumble of the can through the vending machine is loud and jarring in the silence of the hallway and Natasha inwardly winces at the sudden influx of noise. She reaches down and picks it up, popping the tab and taking a drink. The soda is cold and sickly sweet for the first sip and she fights the shudder that accompanies the swallow. Keeping it tucked in her hand, she walks back in the direction of the medical wing doors, mentally preparing herself for the oppression of the hospital room again. The doors swing open and Natasha drops the can. Steve is gone.

Her stomach drops like a two ton weight had suddenly been attached to it and she's running into the room before she realizes her feet are moving. The bed is empty and Steve-less, the monitors unplugged and blank-screened, the cords lying uselessly on the floor and a handful of wires tossed across the mattress in disarray. She hadn't heard anything, she hadn't even been gone that long, but Steve was gone. _He's gone, he's gone, he's gone. Thirty seconds…I've been gone for thirty seconds… _Her heart is thudding painfully against her ribcage and she looks around the room in a panic. There's a brief, surreal second when her breath catches in her throat and she can't move.

Steve is across the room, still clad in nothing but his boxers with the bed sheet tied around his waist, and he's pushing open the window. It would have been hilarious if it had been any other situation. Right now, there's nothing funny about it. There's a gust of wind from outside, cold and smelling like the bay, and its enough to jar Natasha back to her senses.

"Steve, what the hell are you doing?" She snaps, panic and anxiety making her voice raise an octave she's not aware of. She crosses the room in a few steps, coming up beside the younger man trying to get his attention. "You should be in bed, not opening the window for some fresh air."

Steve shakes his head and continues tying one end of the bed sheet to a metal handle beside the window. "I have to get down there…he needs my help."

"No, Steve, no one needs your help. Get away from the window and go get back in bed."

"Can't do that, ma'am. You never leave a fallen soldier behind. I have to go down there and get him."

Natasha shakes her head incredulously. "Steve, there's no one down there. You're not leaving anyone behind." She forces herself to take a deep breath, trying her hardest to keep her voice level. "Look, you're sick and confused and I don't want to hurt you but I will if I have to. Now get away from the window."

Steve ignores her and tightens the knot one more time. "You're not going to hurt me," he shoots over his shoulder, his eyes just barely meeting Natasha's before he turns back around. "He'd do the same thing for me. I'm not going to let him die down there." His lifts himself up onto the edge of the window, one foot on the brink of going outside, and Natasha panics.

"Steve, no!" She grabs him around the waist and drags him bodily back into the room, trying to put herself between delusional soldier and the window.

"Move," Steve mutters and his voice sounds weak as he speaks. His face is flushed, eyes glassy from the fever, but he's determined to get out that window if it kills him.

"No," Natasha says firmly, keeping herself resolutely planted between Steve and the open window. Steve was a solid wall of muscle but he was also sick, his body weakened by illness and fatigue, and Natasha was pretty sure she could manhandle him back into the bed if it came down to it. She's trying to come up with a plan that doesn't involve breaking both of his legs and dragging him back across the room though; that seems a bit extreme even to her.

"I'm giving you one last chance to move," Steve growls and there's a dark, hollow look in his eyes that Natasha has only ever seen on the battlefield. Its dangerous and fierce, a kind of determination that says he's going to get what he wants no matter what the cost.

Natasha shakes her head stubbornly. "No, Steve. I'm not moving." Steve's determined to get out that window at any cost and Natasha is determined not to let that happen. The helicarrier is currently hovering about 700 feet in the air over the bay near Staten Island and, super soldier or not, Natasha is pretty sure Steve wouldn't walk away unscathed from a fall like that. She'd rather not have to explain to Bruce how Steve ended up at the bottom of the bay while under her watch.

Steve moves toward her, fully prepared to push past her and get to the window and Natasha plants her feet. They collide like linebackers, fighting and grappling with each other in front of the open window, and neither is planning to back down anytime soon. Steve is struggling like this is life or death which, in his mind, it probably is, and Natasha is blocking him at every pass. It very similar to wrestling with a grizzly bear.

"Steve, stop! Just stop, alright!" Natasha growls, grabbing him by both arms and trying to keeping him away from the window.

"Let go!" Steve snaps and there's a very small but very noticeable crumpling in his features. His shoulders sag just the slightest bit and he shakes his head, looking behind Natasha's shoulder at the open window. "He's down there, I know he is! It's my fault he fell…I have to go get him!"

Natasha frowns, loosening her grip on his arms by a fraction. "Steve, who-"

"Bucky," Steve cries and that single word is horribly broken and fragile as he says it. "He's down there and he's still alive, I know he's alive. I just have to go get him…please…just let me go…I have to get him…"

Natasha pauses for a second, looking at Steve carefully. He's completely out of it, hallucinating things that clearly aren't there, but he believes its true. He truly believes that Bucky is down there, hurt, alone, and lost, and Steve's about to repel out of the window of the helicarrier with a bed sheet to go rescue him. It would have been laughable if not for the absolutely broken look on Steve's face.

"Please…he's my best friend…you have to let me go down there and get him…please…"

Natasha doesn't let go of his arms but she lets her grip relax a bit, her eyes locked on Steve's face. There's desperate tears in his eyes, a look of utter despair across his features, and she feels her resolve begin to crumble a bit under that expression. "Okay…" She says softly, rubbing one of Steve's arms in what she hopes is a soothing gesture. "Okay, I'll let you go down. Just…let me check your line first, okay? You can't help Bucky if you go down there with a broken line, right?"

Steve looks hesitant for a moment, clearly not wanting to be drawn away from the window when he was this close. He keeps glancing back, desperate to get to Bucky, and the anguish on his face is unmistakable. Finally his shoulders sag like the entire weight of the world is pressing down on his back and he allows Natasha to pull him away from the window and back to the bed.

Steve sinks onto the mattress heavily, head hanging down and shoulders slumped as Natasha kneels in front of him and quickly unties the bed sheet from around his waist. She looks up at him, heart clenching just a tiny bit at the look of crushing grief on his face and clears her throat a bit. "Did you see where he fell?" She asks, dropping the tangled bed sheet to the ground in a pile. She'd had to do this once before with Clint when one of his wounds got infected during a mission. He'd been raving for two solid hours before Natasha finally got him to calm down and it involved a lot of playing along with the delusional fantasies running through the archer's head. She could play along with Steve for the time being so long as it kept him from making another mad dash for that window. "He didn't fall that far, did he? Could you still see him?"

"I'm sorry…" Steve mumbles and his voice is small and broken like a child's.

Natasha frowns and looks up at him again. "What?"

"I'm sorry…" Steve says again and Natasha tries adamantly to ignore the streak of tears making their way down his face. "It was my fault…I shouldn't have gone…I ruined everything…God, I'm so sorry…"

Natasha frowns again and reaches up, cupping Steve's face in her hands. Its uncomfortably warm and she can feel the fever still coursing though his skin but she doesn't move her hands away. "Steve, honey, none of this was your fault, okay? We'll go down there and get Bucky back, don't worry."

She brushes her thumb along his cheekbone, catching a lingering tear and wiping it away. This is wrong, all of it, and she can't help but wish someone else was here with her now. She'd never been good at the whole comforting thing; she was about a maternal as a brick wall and just as stoic but she can't pull away now. It was different with Clint; she understood him and knew all of his secrets. She knew exactly what he was seeing in his fever induced hallucinations. She has no idea what Steve is experiencing. Whatever it was had obviously been one of the worst moments of his life. "I'll even go down with you, okay? We'll get him back together."

Steve shakes his head, the movement slow and heavy like it takes a lot of effort to do it. "I tried to go back…I wanted to go back so bad but they wouldn't let me…the told me I couldn't…" More tears streak down his face, trickling over Natasha's fingers, and she thinks its quite possibly one of the most heart-breaking things she's ever seen. Steve is broken, there's no other word for it, and Natasha has absolutely no idea how to put him back together. "I missed you so much…" His eyes lock on hers then and he covers one of her hands with his own, leaning into the touch like it's the only thing he has left in the world. "God Peggy, I'm so sorry…"

Natasha freezes then, honest to God freezes, because _shit_. Steve isn't seeing her as Natasha Romanov, master spy and assassin extraordinaire, he's seeing her as Peggy Carter, the woman he left behind in the 40's. Something very similar to the sensation of being punched in the stomach makes Natasha catch her breath and for a moment she can't speak, she can't breathe, all she can do is stare.

"I wanted to come back to you so bad…" Steve continues, his expression crumpling a bit more as he speaks. "I missed you so much it hurt to breathe…I wanted to see you again, just one more time…and they said I couldn't go back…" He shakes his head, shoulders hitching just a tiny bit each time he takes a breath. "I'm so sorry…"

Natasha feels the sharp prickle of tears creep along the backs of her eyes and she sets her jaw tightly to keep from losing her composure in front of him. She can't bear to bring Steve out of the delusion just yet because right now he's getting at least some form of closure. Its more than he ever got when he was unfrozen and he needs this now more than he needs anything else. "Steve, its okay," she says softly, keeping her voice gentle and quiet as she speaks to him. "I'm not mad…I know you would have come back if you could."

Steve shakes his head miserably and lets his head fall onto her shoulder. "I missed our date…" He breathes and Natasha feels that knife of guilt twist just a bit deeper. She wonders how many times Steve has gone through this exact same apology in his head, in his room, in his dreams. How utterly alone he must have felt when he woke up in the 21st century and know that he left everything of his old life behind. Everyone he loved and cared about, hell, everyone he even knew was gone forever, lost along the seams of time and never to be found again except for in his memories. She wondered how isolated he must have felt, how vulnerable and exposed to be introduced to a world he didn't recognize but knew everything about him. It would be like waking up on a planet identical to earth with absolutely nothing familiar about it. The tip of that iceberg was enough to take her breath away and she shoved those thoughts away to dwell on at another time. Steve needs her right now, she needs to be strong for him.

"Well you'll just have to make it up to me then, won't you?" She says, her voice soft beside his ear. She strokes his hair gently, long fingers carding through sweat-damp blond hair, and keeps his head nestled against her shoulder.

"I still don't know how to dance…" Steve mutters and his voice sounds a bit calmer than it had been before. He's leaning against her heavily, arms dangling by his sides uselessly, and Natasha is pretty sure if she wasn't sitting below him, she wouldn't be able to support his weight.

She swallows thickly before she answers, the words sticking in her throat like they're coated in sandpaper. "I'll show you how…"

She's heard this conversation before but it wasn't her speaking, it was someone else. It was a voice that didn't belong to her, one that belonged to a woman she'd never met and the only one Steve wanted to hear. It had been from an old recording, littered with static and barely understandable due to its age. She'd dug it out of the archives after their first mission with Steve in charge and sat in a silent room to hear it more clearly. The exchange was short, barely more than three minutes long, but it was best kept pieces of information S.H.I.E.L.D had: it was a recording of the final words of Steve Rogers before he disappeared from history for nearly seventy years.

Natasha had sat silent and stoic as she listened to the recording, taking note of how calm Steve sounded even in the face of certain death. He knew the crash would kill him, he hadn't counted on being frozen and preserved in the ice for all those years, the serum protecting him and healing the damage done to his body so he looked like he was just sleeping when he was found. He knew the only way to save everyone he loved and cared about was to go down with that plane and be lost in the long, long lines of history. Clint had sat beside her as they listened to the tape, his expression dark and unreadable with each painful exchange of words between Steve and Peggy. They both knew he was going to die, it was simply a matter of seconds by this point.

Natasha could feel her jaw clench when Steve asked for a rain check on their date, the vast expanse of water and ice probably appearing in his line of sight at that moment. Peggy rescheduled it for the next week and was tearfully teasing Steve about not being late. She tried hard to ignore the heavy coldness that settled through her chest when Steve promises Peggy he wouldn't step on her toes only to have the line die out abruptly and cut to static. And just like that it was over; Captain America was gone and he took Steve Rogers with him. Natasha will deny to her dying day that there were tears in her eyes when the broken, pleading voice of Peggy Carter saying Steve's name over and over again, never to get a response, filled the remainder of the tape. The tape lasted for about 45 seconds after Steve was lost and Peggy's voice never stopped saying his name. She pretended to brush her hair away from her face to wipe away the tear that had managed to break loose. Clint reached across the table to grab her hand. Natasha dislocated his thumb.

Now history was repeating itself in a distorted and twisted version of the truth. Steve was still apologizing to a woman who was no closer to him than she had been when he'd disappeared back in the 40's. He was still seeking forgiveness, closure for all the things he never got to say, and Natasha didn't have the heart to correct him otherwise.

Steve's head is heavy against her shoulder, his body hunched over and curled in on itself like he simply didn't have the energy to remain upright anymore. He's sagging further and further into her and she knows it'll only be a matter of time before he's completely exhausted himself. Keeping her voice soft and gentle, she tries to rouse him from his quiet despair. "I can't very well teach you how to dance if you're sick like this though," she says, and Steve shifts just the tiniest bit against her shoulder. "You need to get some rest or you'll be stepping on my feet all night."

Steve laughs but it's a humorless, breathy kind of noise that's little more than a puff of air against the side of Natasha's neck. He doesn't protest when she very carefully begins to gather his body back on the mattress; one leg first, then the other, scooting him back a little bit at a time so he's in the middle of the mattress. He helps where he can but mostly she doesn't let him, taking over in place of his exhausted muscles and carefully arranging the long, heavy limbs across the bed to her liking. It takes a few minutes but she finally manages to get all of him back on the bed and by the time she's done, they're both red in the face and slightly out of breath.

Steve catches her wrist just as she steps back to retrieve the sheets from the floor, his grip gentle and somewhat unsure as he wraps his larger hand around her wrist. "Please don't go…every time I open my eyes you're gone and it hurts all over again…" His eyes are pleading and there's a hopelessly broken expression on his face that speaks volumes. "Please…just stay with me for a little while…I don't want to wake up alone again…"

Natasha swallows past the lump in her throat and nods shakily, offering him a smile that's about as thin as water color on white paper. "Okay, I'll stay. I won't leave you again." She crawls onto the mattress with him then, turning onto her side and very carefully gathering Steve into her arms. She's never been good at comforting people but she can hold him all night if she needs to.

Steve doesn't say anything else, he hardly moves, and he lays there quietly with his head tucked against Natasha's shoulder, silent tears soaking through the fabric of her sleeve. Natasha stays silent for a long time, one hand tracing meaningless patterns across Steve's broad shoulders and the other carding listlessly through his hair. She starts humming at some point, soft and quiet like she's trying to lull a child to sleep, and its an old Russian lullaby she hasn't heard in years. She doesn't remember the words anymore, she can't even recall who sang it to her in the first place, but it doesn't seem to matter to Steve.

The night nurse comes in almost half an hour later and stops in the doorway instantly, her eyes landing on the pair of them on the bed. Natasha sees her at the door and shoots her a glare that could melt steel. The expression on her face is fierce and protective, a mother bear protecting her cubs, and she's silently challenging the nurse to come into the room and disturb them. This is her territory now and anyone who comes too close is in serious danger of losing a limb they're pretty fond of. The nurse seems to get the message and turns on her heel, exiting the hospital room and leaving them alone.

Steve stirs just the slightest bit against her shoulder and Natasha finds herself curling around his body with her own, protecting him from the world at least for a little while. "Its okay," she whispers beside his ear and he stills almost immediately. "Go back to sleep. I'm right here…" Steve fades off into a dreamless sleep again and Natasha rests her cheek against his soft hair.

"I'm right here…you won't be alone anymore…I promise."

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**Ngghh...the feels...*dies a bit inside* Hope everyone liked it! :D**


	5. Chills

**Wow, this chapter got long O.o I was originally just going to write is as a Steve/Thor chapter but it ended up becoming a Steve/Thor/JARVIS chapter (because JARVIS is awesome) I'm kinda making up my own verson of the lower floors of Stark Tower in the beginning because we never really see them in the movies; we know they're there but that's about it. Yay artistic licensing! Also, I'd like to point out that the scene toward the end is in no way slashy, its simply a cute, cuddly bromance moment I've had stuck in my mind since this story began forming. I have some serious love for Thor and the idea of him cuddle anyone is utterly adorable to me so yeah, that's what happened down there ^.-**

**Also, I'm trying my hardest not to make Steve seem so useless and weak in this chapter; he's just really, really sick. Imagine having the flu on top of the worst food poisoning of your life and that's about where Steve is sitting in this chapter; he's completely miserable and can barely stand, let alone move around to any degree O.o All that said, I hope you enjoy it! :D**

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Stark Tower could be considered and small, high rise city on some days and bustling metropolis of overlapping floors the next. The first five levels of the Tower were strictly laboratories and offices filled with assistants and scientists who were practically falling all over themselves to get a chance to work with the great Tony Stark. The ground floor housed an enormous wooden desk that was easily big enough to fit eight secretaries behind who were constantly taking messages and scheduling appointments (usually months to years away from the current date) for clients eager to meet with Tony about business deals and contracts. The floor above them held enough tech support to make major computer companies all over the world blush and was run by technological geniuses that were just as smart as the man who hired all of them. Everything was restricted access beyond the fifth floor and there were only a very small handful of people who had access to anything beyond the eighth. The upper levels were in the middle of being remodeled and even then, only one person, Pepper, had the key card that allowed the workers up onto the floors that needed to be worked on. For all the glitz and glamour he put on for the public, Tony Stark was an extraordinarily private person when it came to certain aspects of his life and the upper levels of Stark Tower happened to be one of those aspects.

He'd been meaning to extend the offices out of the Tower for months now but with the additions being made to the upper floors that would house the rest of the Avengers, it seemed like an appropriate time to start making those plans a reality. It wouldn't really do to have a collection of superheroes living in the same building as a couple hundred civilians; Tony was no psychic but he was pretty sure that having civilians working in the same building the Avengers were living in would increase the casualties ten fold if the building was ever attacked. Besides, he knew his fellow teammates probably craved privacy just as much as he did and it was something they wouldn't get if they were constantly tiptoeing around scientists and tech support. However, Tony hadn't quite managed to move the offices out yet which meant that everyone who worked for him still worked in this building. There was always someone here at all hours of the day or night so it was strange for the Tower to be almost completely empty now. Well, empty with the exception of Steve.

The soldier had been here all morning, alone save for the mindless chatter on the TV in the main living room. With the city on the brink of total riot down below, Tony had dismissed all the workers on the lower floors until things calmed down in the streets. Granted, there was no guarantee looters wouldn't come by and try to make off with some of the billionaire's belongings but Tony wasn't all that concerned by the threat; JARVIS could be a ruthless guard dog when necessary. So, save for maybe one or two workers left in the Tower, Steve was here alone.

He'd woken up in the medical wing at some ungodly hour and felt every bit like someone had hit him with a tank and then backed up to complete the job. His memories had been a fuzzy mess of disjointed images and words, jumbled together like they'd been cut up and tossed into a hat and then drawn out at random. Natasha had been there when he'd woken up and very calmly explained to him that he'd been sick and confined to the medical wing for a good 32 hours. Steve had frowned, not remembering much of how he'd come to be in the medical wing, let alone laid up in a hospital bed for nearly a day and half, but Natasha filled him in on the blanks. She explained the water treatment plant and how Steve had gotten exposed to whatever Inman had put in the tank and that the resulting fever had essentially reeked absolute havoc on Steve's body during his time in the medical wing. Steve had listened quietly, mentally trying to piece together all the missing time his mind couldn't account for and failing miserably. His head felt like it was full of cotton, a side effect of the fever probably, and he felt like he couldn't focus on anything for too long without getting completely lost in the clouds of dark fog in his head. He gave up after a few minutes and just resigned himself to figuring it all out later when he didn't feel like he was lost in a cloud bank.

There was something Natasha was leaving out though, something unspoken and hidden in her eyes. She watched him carefully as she spoke, sat a bit closer to him than she normally would, and Steve found himself wondering if he'd said or done anything wrong while he battled the fever. Natasha didn't look at him like she was angry or offended, she looked at him like she was worried about him, an expression Steve could honestly say he'd never seen on her unless it involved Clint. He found himself apologizing for things he didn't remember and Natasha had very politely rolled her eyes and ignored him. Her expression became much more neutral, an attempt to reel her emotions back in, but it was too late to erase it completely from her features. Steve wanted to ask her about it but he knew it could probably wait. Whatever put that haunted, stricken look in Natasha's eyes could be figured out at another time when they city wasn't on the verge of total anarchy.

The nurses and the one doctor left on board the helicarrier had wanted to keep Steve in the medical wing until Bruce came back and personally cleared him from the hovering medical staff. They told him that his fever had dropped considerably but they were still concerned about the potential for residual health problems left in the wake of the illness. Steve wanted to insist that he felt well enough to leave the medical wing and that he didn't feel any lingering effects of the fever which was completely untrue. His head still felt fuzzy and confused and he felt shaky all over but he really couldn't stand hospitals either; too many memories of being confined to a hospital bed during his youth made that dislike stronger than the logic that demanded he stay there. There had been a very strong battle of wills between Steve and the medical staff, each insisting their point and trying to convince the other of their side of the argument. In the end, it had been Natasha who had convinced them to allow Steve to leave on the promise that he would return directly to Stark Tower and would not leave under any circumstances. The doctor and nurses had been entirely unconvinced by her assertion but they all knew better than to challenge Natasha on this matter; to be honest, every single one of them were more terrified of her than they were of Director Fury.

Natasha had been called down for ground duty in the city shortly after this argument and complied with the command only after she had informed Bruce of the decision to move Steve back to the Tower. The doctor had agreed to the decision and the matter was set: Steve could move back to the Tower under explicit orders that he not be allowed outside the building for any reason without granted access. Natasha had personally escorted him back to the Tower, hovering just a bit closer than she normally did and keeping a much sharper eye on Steve as they made their way up to the upper floors. Steve desperately wanted more answers from her but couldn't really formulate any coherent thought worth voicing at the moment. He stayed silent and Natasha stayed close until the reached top floor of Stark Tower.

Once she'd gotten him at least somewhat settled in, Natasha had handed Steve a cell phone with only three phone numbers programmed into it: Bruce's, hers, and the main office of the medical wing. Each one was on speed dial and she told Steve to call one of those numbers if he began to feel ill again for any reason. She turned to leave then but not before putting JARVIS on round the clock Steve-watch until they all got back. The implication had been clear: if something went wrong and Steve didn't call one of them, JARVIS would. With the Avengers away from the Tower, JARVIS had suddenly inherited the role of lead mother hen as far as everything Steve-related was concerned. Natasha had left then and Steve found himself alone in the Tower for the first time since he'd moved in.

Steve shivers and pulls himself into a smaller ball on the sofa, the heavy blanket draped across his legs doing absolutely nothing to alleviate the constant chills coursing their way through his body. One of the nurses had told him that the chills were a side effect of the fever, his body's way of reacting to the extreme fluctuations in temperature, and would eventually subside on their own. They'd told him the best thing to do was to get as much rest as possible and to simply let his body heal on its own without forcing the process. Super soldier serum or not, Steve had been infected with a strong concentration of the organism Inman had released into the water and it was going to take a few days to work its way out of his system completely. Steve had been trying to take their advice all morning but it was much easier said than done especially when it felt like he was sitting in a tub filled with ice chips. He'd been shivering constantly for the past four hours and no amount of blankets or layers seemed to help the matter in any way.

Bundled in sweatpants, socks, and a hoodie (it had been called a sweatshirt back in his day but Tony insisted it was called a hoodie now; weird.), Steve is curled in on himself as tightly as humanly possible. He'd retrieved the blanket from his own room along with both of the throws tossed along the backs of the couches and had wrapped them all around himself like a cotton cocoon. The warmth the blankets should have provided him with was doing nothing to soothe the full body tremors that shook their way through him and only seemed to be drawing more of his own body heat out with them. Steve frowns and wedges his feet in between the couch cushions, hoping to trap even a small amount of heat around his frozen feet. Socks be damned; he felt like his toes had frozen into little blocks of ice beneath the thick woven material.

Steve sighs miserably and rests his chin on his knees, fighting to suppress the next wave of shivers that vibrate their way through him. He'd been sick like this a lot when he was a kid but it had been a long, long time since he'd felt this miserable. He'd caught the flu once when he was eleven and it was almost this bad but still much more preferable to how he felt now. He was freezing from the inside out, his very veins lined with frost, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to get warm. The most obvious solution was to take a hot shower but with water shut off to nearly the entire city, Stark Tower included, that option was tossed right out the window. So much for the easy way out…

Steve frowns when he realizes his teeth are chattering and his ears are cold. The cold chills are nearly painful now and his muscles feel tight and tense thanks to all the shivering but he can't stop. Suddenly he's too uncomfortable to sit still any longer and Steve gets to his feet, shuffling across the impeccably polished linoleum to the kitchen. Since he can't get warm on the outside, maybe getting warm on the inside will help.

His socked feet shamble across the cold tiles into the kitchen and the granite counter tops shine spotlessly in front of him. For a minute, Steve doesn't move, he just stands there and stares at the kitchen. All the appliances are shiny and clean, gleaming in the glare of the overhead lights, and Steve has a moment to think that his mother probably would have cried tears of happiness had she lived long enough to see a kitchen like this. His mother had been a wonderful cook, the best he'd ever known, but their house had been so small when he was growing up and food had been so scarce that she hardly ever got to cook the way she wanted to. The oven and stove required fuel bought with money they didn't have so a good majority of their meals had been cold bowls of whatever she could scrape together. Steve didn't mind, he'd eat pretty much anything she put in front of him, but he knew his mother regretted that she could provide so little. He remembered picking up scrap metal along the side of the street when he was eight, scrimping and saving the meager pay it brought him, and finally having enough to afford a small game hen from the local grocer. His mother had actually wept when he brought it home, kissing him all over his thin face and holding him for a long time. It had been the best meal they'd ever had together.

"Captain Rogers? Is there anything I can assist you with?"

A voice startles Steve out of his memories and he blinks, shivering all over again as he comes back to the clean, empty kitchen. The voice hadn't come from a person but from JARVIS, his voice carrying throughout all the walls of the Tower. "Uh…sorry JARVIS," Steve apologizes, managing to control his chattering teeth long enough to speak clearly to the AI. "I was just going to make something to drink."

"Of course, sir," the AI responds casually and Steve found himself left to his thoughts again as JARVIS's voice retreated until further notice. Steve liked JARVIS; once he got over the shock of having a disembodied voice speaking to him through the walls, he found the AI's presence almost comforting. JARVIS would often keep him company while he was in the gym at odd hours of the night, finding old, long-forgotten songs that Steve remembered from the 40's and playing them over the speakers while he was working out. He was always polite and accommodating and Steve found it easy to return the generosity.

Steve shuffles further into the kitchen and retrieves a pitcher of water from the refrigerator. Bruce had a habit of disinfecting any water pulled from the tap and keeping a pitcher of it in the refrigerator at all times. Steve was pretty sure the obsessive sterilization had something to do with the doctor's penchant for isolating himself in under developed countries that had a problem with unclean drinking water. Steve had noticed early on when all of them started sharing the same roof that Bruce never drank tap water and would only allow it in food if it was being cooked or boiled into sterility. Tony picked on him mercilessly for it but Steve never really gave it a second thought; he'd known guys like that in the army and it didn't seem anymore strange to him than anything else he'd come across in this century.

Vowing to replace the water for Bruce once the pipes were opened back up, Steve pours about a cup's worth into the kettle beside the stove and flips the switch at the bottom of the pot for it to boil. Everything was electronic nowadays, running on energy and circuits that Steve didn't understand. Tony had tried to give him a brief explanation one day but it just made his head hurt. Hardly anything ran on electricity when he was growing up, the lights in their house being one of the only exceptions, and it simply boggled his mind that now, in the 21st century, there was hardly anything that _didn't_ run on electricity. Things had changed though, time had moved forward without him and he was responsible for catching up to it now.

The kettle whistles softly and Steve moves to turn it off but stops as another shiver races its way up his spine. He frowns and forces himself to straighten a bit, grabbing a mug from the cabinet beside the sink and setting it on the counter beside the kettle. He shivers again and looks up at the cabinets, trying to remember where the tea bags would be kept. His mind is still fuzzy and he's pretty sure pilfering through the cabinets aimlessly will cause more of a mess than he's willing to make. The last time he'd searched for tea bags he'd ended up in the spice cabinet and Tony had made some kind of joke about something called the Spice Girls. Steve didn't get it but Tony thought it was hilarious.

"Something I can help you with, sir?" JARVIS asks politely from the ceiling, his systems still locked on the shivery super soldier in the kitchen.

"Tea?" Steve asks uncertainly, feeling foolish and a bit at a loss in the middle of the kitchen.

"Third cabinet to your right, sir."

Steve follows his directions and opens the cabinet, finding a box of tea bags on the second shelf. "Thanks JARVIS."

"My pleasure, sir."

Steve plucks a single bag from the box and drops it into his mug, watching as it sinks to the bottom of the cup. Thin, black tendrils of tea begin to seep upwards from the tea bag, swirling in the hot water and making it dark. Steve wraps both hands around the mug, nearly sighing in relief as the intense heat burns against his palms. It hurts but its warm and he keeps his hands wrapped around the ceramic base tightly, soaking up as much of the heat as he can. His eyes drift down to the darkening water and he stares into the depths, fighting back the tremors that continue to course through him. His mind begins to wander, drifting aimlessly as he stares at the dark water and brushing across tiny fragments of memory he forced himself to forget. Memories where everything is cold and dark and there's icy water filling his lungs with each breath. Memories where he can just barely feel the earth shift beneath his sprawled body and his mind uselessly points out that they're sinking and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Memories that turn into nightmares that jolt him awake at night and leave him breathless and gasping for air that's not filled with water. Nights like that are bad and they leave him with a sick, cold sensation right behind his sternum that has nothing to do with the memories themselves. Nights like that remind Steve of the day he disappeared.

"Captain Rogers?"

Steve blinks and looks up from the mug, blinking around the empty room silently.

"My information indicates that black tea should only steep for approximately three to five minutes for proper taste; it has been nearly twelve minutes since you placed the tea in the cup, sir."

"Oh," Steve mumbles, reaching into the steaming water and plucking the tea bag out of the mug. "Sorry, just got lost in my thoughts I guess."

"Is there anything you wish to discuss, sir?"

Steve smiles at the question and figures if an automated voice could sound concerned, JARVIS certainly did. "No, its alright, JARVIS, just some old memories that like to resurface every once in a while. Thanks for the offer though."

"Of course, sir."

Keeping both hands wrapped around the mug and letting his frozen hands warm against the hot ceramic, Steve shuffles back into the living room and drops back onto the couch. The short walk between the kitchen and living room had left him winded and tired and Steve frowns deeply, remembering all at once how easily he used to tire before the serum. It makes him feel weak all over again and he hates it. The logical part of his brain tells him that the lack of strength and fatigue is residual from the fever but doesn't really make him feel any better.

He catches glimpses of the news on the TV, snap shots of the angry citizens and people waiting in long lines for bottled water that took up entire city blocks. Barricades had been set up along some of the streets to protect police and medical personnel stationed in the city to offer assistance and keep order among the irate citizens. The water treatment facility was still working furiously to fix the damage done to the tank but it wasn't fast enough. People were angry and becoming angrier with each passing minute, soon it would devolve into a full blown riot with casualties all over the city. And Steve was stuck up here in the Tower unable to help in any way.

The thing he hated most about himself before the serum wasn't the fact that he was short and scrawny and got beat up on a pretty regular basis. It was the fact that a good majority of the time he felt helpless due to his limitations. He'd grown up during the height of the Depression and always felt like he should be doing something more than just existing. He felt helpless that he couldn't help his mother more while he was growing up, helpless that she had to work long, exhausting hours and scrimp and save every single dime she made to keep a roof over their heads. He hated the fact that his small, weak body was often sickly and pathetic even on the best of days and that he was often held back because of his weaker countenance. The army had been his chance to do something about all of that and the serum had changed everything. It made him stronger, faster than he ever thought possible; it turned him into Captain America. Captain America became the symbol for the country and for the first time in his life, Steve felt like he was a part of something bigger than himself, he felt like he could actually make a difference. He was the proverbial little guy, the one who got up every time he got knocked down, and America needed that to believe in. He was the symbol for strength and justice, perseverance and resolve, all the values his mother had instilled in him as a child. He should be down there helping everyone, offering support and assistance in anyway possible; not stuck up here in the Tower sipping tea while the city fell to shambles beneath his feet.

"Hey JARVIS," Steve says, his eyes never leaving the news coverage. He tries to ignore the way his teeth are chattering again.

"Yes sir?"

"I don't supposed there's any way I could convince you to let me out of here?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. I'm under strict orders from both Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner to keep you inside the Tower at all times. They've also restricted your access to the gymnasium and have given me permission to call them if any changes in your condition are indicated." JARVIS sounds almost apologetic as he relays all this information. "Not only that but Ms. Romanov also made it abundantly clear what she would do to my circuit boards if I were to let you out of my sight."

Steve laughs but it's a tired, breathy noise that sounds a lot more like a sigh than a laugh. He knew his body well enough to know that he could hardly lift a pencil right now, let alone do anything worth mentioning at the moment. He's shivering so much his body is beginning to go numb and the chills are only getting worse the longer he sits here. The walk to the kitchen alone had winded him more than he thought possible and tapped into the very last of the small amount of energy he had left. Still, he couldn't stand just sitting here and doing nothing. He was Captain America for God's sake…

"Well, it was worth a try, right JARVIS?"

"Indeed it was, sir." There's a brief moment of silence, long enough to be considered a pause but too short to be considered awkward. "Sir, might I suggest getting some rest? My systems indicate that your body temperature is still fluctuating quite irregularly and it can hardly be helping your condition to continue pushing yourself in such a way."

Steve smiles weakly, another tremor rippling down his arms. "I'll try, JARVIS." The blankets are cocooned around him again, thick material laying on top of him heavily like a winter coat. Steve is still freezing. "Do you think you could turn up the heat just a bit?"

"Of course, sir." The soft swish of air from the heater fills the room and Steve nearly sighs in relief as a warm breeze brushes across his face.

"Thank you, JARVIS."

"My pleasure, sir."

Steve pulls his knees up to his chest again, wrapping both arms around them and balancing the tea mug on the top of his knees. He can feel the heat from the mug seeping through blankets on his knees and it's a very small relief against his chilled skin. The temperature in the room is set to a balmy 80 degrees but Steve can barely feel it. He'd had problems being cold all the time as a kid, his skinny body never retaining much heat and leaving him a shivery mess of gangly limbs, but all that had changed after the serum. The increase in muscle mass allowed him to retain heat much more efficiently and he often felt too hot more times that not. Even in the dead of winter when they were camped out in the snowy forests of Germany, he barely felt the biting chill of the wind against his skin thanks to the effects of the serum. That was gone now, though. He was absolutely freezing, shivering constantly, and it was miserable.

"Sir," JARVIS's voice pulls him out of his thoughts once again and Steve blinks, finding himself still staring at the mug balanced on his knees. "It appears master Thor has returned from Asgard."

As if on cue, the door leading from the hallway to the living room swishes open with a pneumonic hiss and the thunder god steps through the threshold, armor gleaming regally and Mjolnir gripped loosely in one hand. He steps a bit further into the room, frowning a bit to find it empty and devoid of his teammates.

"Welcome back, master Thor," JARVIS greets from his place around the room. "It's a pleasure to see you've returned."

Thor grins broadly up at the ceiling. "It is good to be back, man in the walls." Though he was plenty used to JARVIS by this point, Thor refused to call the AI by name since he was unable to see a body to go with the voice. He was polite and endlessly formal with Tony's automated butler but the name hadn't quite taken up residence in the god's vocabulary just yet. Even after moving into the Tower, JARVIS still remained "man in the walls" to Thor; it didn't seem to bother JARVIS at all so it continued to be his name to the Asgardian. "Tell me, what has become of my companions? I was eagerly expecting to see them upon my return."

As a response to his question, Steve's head popped up over the edge of the couch and he waved slightly. "Hey Thor."

The god grinned brightly and approached the couch, seeming to have just now noticed that Steve was in the room. As he got closer though, his grin faded into a frown and deep concern passed through his blue eyes. "You appear unwell, Captain," he said simply, taking in Steve's pallor and the bundle of blankets and hoodie wrapped around him.

Steve smiles weakly and waves one hand flippantly. "Its nothing, just had a rough couple of days. How was your trip to Asgard?"

Thor's frown deepens and its clear he's not about to be swayed by the change of topic. "My journey can be discussed at another time. Tell me how you came to be in such a deplorable condition."

Steve sighs and reaches up to move the mug from his knees, setting it on the glass table next to him. "We ran into some problems at the water treatment plant the other day. There was this scientist who was trying to release some kind of bacteria into the water and I ended up getting exposed to it." A very brief, distorted image of toppling into the water tank with Dr. Inman crosses his mind and just remembering the swirl of the water against his skin makes him shiver all over again. He fights it back and tries to keep his composure in front of the god; it was different when he was sitting here alone, he didn't want to let his weakness show in front of anyone else. "That's where the others are. The facility had to be shut down in order to re-sterilize the water and the pipes and so the city has been without water for about two days now. Everyone has been called down to keep the city from descending into complete chaos." Steve leaves out the "except me" because it seems pretty obvious at this point.

Lightning flashes through Thor's eyes and a dark look crosses his face. "His punishment should have been severe for endangering the lives of so many, especially that of an Avenger."

"It's okay," Steve placates quickly because he can literally smell the crackle of electricity in the air that surrounds the statement. "They took him into custody; he's in prison now. He can't hurt anyone else."

"He hurt _you_." Thor growls dangerously and there's a snap of static from somewhere in the room. The Avengers had quickly found out that one of the fastest and easiest ways to end up on the business end of Mjolnir was to threaten one of Thor's teammates. He was fiercely loyal to all of them, dangerously protective, and would gladly call down all the power of thunder from heaven to anyone who hurt them. Simply put, it was not a good idea to mess with any of the Avengers so long as Thor was around.

"Yeah, but its nothing I can't shake off," Steve insists, trying his best to suppress the tremor in his voice as another shiver ripples its way through him. His teeth are still chattering a bit and he clenches his jaws shut as he speaks. "I'm alright, really."

Thor frowns at him, clearly not convinced. "Your body belies your conviction, Captain. You shake as if touched by the Frost Giants of Jotunheim." The god walks forward slowly, unhooking the brilliant red cape from the back of his armor and swinging it away from his shoulders and in front of him in a flourish of motion. He carefully untangles the cocoon of blankets from around Steve, frowning more deeply when the younger man lets out a breathy little gasp as another shiver races through him. He replaces the layers of blankets with just his cape, bundling it tightly around his trembling teammate.

Steve is momentarily speechless when he realizes the cloak alone is warmer than any of the blankets in the entire Tower. "But this is yours," he points out rather uselessly and Thor's laughter booms off the walls.

"Aye, it is. And since it is mine, I can do with it what I see fit. At this moment it appears you need it more than I; I am allowing you the use of it until your health improves."

Steve wants to protest the issue further but he finds that it's the first time he's felt even moderately warm since he got here and the argument sort of fizzles in the back of his throat. The cloak is heavy and thick, locking in heat better than anything he's ever felt, and it seems to lessen the chills rumbling through his body to a more manageable degree. He vaguely wonders what kind of fabric its made of but finds his mind drawn back to their present situation. "Uh, I think Fury will want to see you now that you're back; we weren't expecting you to return until the end of the week. He wants all hands on deck until the water crisis is solved." He leaves out the "except me" again because now its just rubbing salt into a open wound.

Thor nods but he doesn't seem too concerned with the request. "I will meet with the Director in due time. Until then, my concern is your well being."

Steve frowns and shakes his head. "No, Thor, you guys have to fill in since I'm out of commission. The people need someone to look to and since I'm confined to the Tower until further notice its up to you and the others to keep order in the city. I'm fine, honestly."

Thor cocks a single eyebrow at him, his eyes sweeping over the younger man's pale skin and glassy eyes, and steps away from the couch. "You will forgive me if I remain unconvinced, Captain." He walks toward the door, speaking up to the ceiling as he goes. "Would you keep watch over him until I return, man in the walls?"

"Of course, sir."

Thor disappeared from the room, leaving Steve alone once more. The soldier sighs and shifts a bit beneath the cloak, still surprised by the warmth of the material swathed around his body. He'd always been a bit fascinated by the cape, the way it moved as if an extension of Thor himself, and it seemed to be as much a part of him as Mjolnir. Still, the fact that he would willingly hand it over spoke volumes of the level of devotion the Asgardian held for his teammates and Steve wasn't one to take such a gesture lightly. It was an honor, one few humans had earned, and he appreciated it more than he could say.

The news drones on in the background, waves of words and images that all begin to blur together after a while. There haven't been any new developments in at least an hour so the footage is beginning to repeat as well as the interviews. Steve is still shivering but its not nearly to the extent as he had been earlier and his body feels heavy and drained with fatigue. He finds his mind beginning to drift along with the constant murmur of the news and his body sags a bit into the couch cushions. His head aches from the remnants of the fever and his mind still feels like its coated in cotton. His reactions are slow, his limbs heavy, and all the shivering has only succeeded in exhausting him further. He hears the swish of the door again and can only guess that Thor has come back into the room but he can't really bring himself to look.

His spatial awareness registers that someone is standing beside him before he turns his head and he suddenly finds himself lifted bodily, cape and all, off the couch and placed back on something soft and warm. It takes his fatigue and half-asleep addled mind a minute to process that fact that he's sitting in Thor's lap. He shouldn't have been surprised by the fact that Thor could pick him up like he weighed nothing at all; he'd seen him do it to the others first hand. Thor was stronger than all of them and often pointed out that most humans were downright tiny compared to the fellow Asgardians who shared his home world. It was still a bit startling to see and experience the god lording his strength so easily.

However, it wasn't the fact that Thor had just plucked him off the couch like he was a rag doll that bothered Steve; it was the fact that he was being coddled. He hadn't been held like this since he was child, cradled in his mother's lap as he suffered his way through one of the many asthma attacks that plagued him growing up. He always hated it when he was younger because it just emphasized the fact that he was ill and weak and needed someone to take care of him. It was an unpleasant feeling even on the best of days. Now he's bundled in the god's cape, sitting on his lap with his arms wrapped loosely around him and Steve definitely feels like a child all over again. He wants to protest indignantly and point out that this is completely unnecessary but all that comes out is a strangled, "Wha-?" before Thor shushes him.

"Do not mistake your illness for weakness, Captain," Thor says softly, his voice warm and close beside Steve's ear. "I, nor any of our companions, think any less of you because of this. Allow us to lend you our strength in your time of need."

Steve feels his indignation abate slightly but he's not completely satisfied with the outcome of this situation. He still feels weak and useless, a burden to his team rather than a leader, and it weighs heavily on his shoulders like an invisible weight.

"You are still our leader even in spite of your malady. I am quite certain our fellow Avengers share this sentiment."

Steve is honestly beginning to wonder if Thor is psychic somehow because he always seems to know exactly what to say at just the right time. He knows him well enough now to know that Thor is completely genuine with everything he says and would never say anything he didn't believe to be the absolute truth. It's a reassurance Steve didn't realize he needed until now and it somehow takes away some of the weight.

The god's arms are wrapped around him loosely, his breath warm and soothing against the back of Steve neck, and the soldier finds himself relaxing ever so slightly into the embrace. His shivering lessens further and another wave of fatigue sweeps through him. Steve relaxes even further into Thor's arms and realizes this is the first time he's been warm all day.

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**Oh Steve, my darling...I'm nowhere near done torturing you yet *le sigh* I'll apologize later when I get cavities from the fluff XD**


	6. Vomiting

**Hey guys! So sorry for the long update, school started back last week and has been demanding nothing less than my absolute attention at all times O.o Anyway, hope you all enjoy this chapter! :D**

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He gets the message about twenty minutes before his shift ends. His phone beeps twice against his hip and he pulls it out, tapping the screen for the message to open. It's a single line from Natasha, strictly professional and all business like her messages usually are: _go back to the Tower when you get done; Thor needs your help._

Clint frowns as he reads then re-reads the message, absently scrolling up the screen to see if anything else would appear. Nothing else shows up, just that single line of instructions and the time it was sent. He drops the phone back into his pocket and walks toward the stairs leading down from the roof. He'd been up here a good majority of the afternoon, keeping an eye on the streets down below. Aside from a few people who had tried to sneak passed the barricades and enter an empty store on the corner, it had been an entirely uneventful day. The new shift of agents should be on their way by now so he doesn't feel all that bad about leaving his post before its time. Besides, he's hot, he's tired, and apparently there's a troubled Asgardian in need of his assistance.

He reaches the ground level and crosses the street, meeting up with a black-clad S.H.I.E.L.D agent on the corner. The younger man eagerly informs him that he'll be relieving him of his position and Clint has to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the kid's enthusiasm. He feels the need to warn him of the hours of impending boredom he was destined for but felt it better to keep his mouth shut. This kid was obviously a newbie, a fresh recruit and overly ready to get out into the field. Clint remembered being like that when he first started and quickly learned that missions were not all shoot outs and blazes of glory; in fact, a good majority of them turned out a lot like this one had: lots of sitting in one place and watching for things that didn't happen. He figures the kid needs to learn from experience so instead of warning him about the slow death by boredom-induced brain rot, he just pats him on the shoulder and slips past him.

He's about six blocks away from the Tower so he hopes whatever has Thor requesting assistance can wait until he gets there. They hadn't been expecting the god back until at least the end of the week, possibly later, but apparently he'd decided to cut his visit home short and return earlier than expected. It actually worked out in their favor considering the circumstances of the city and taking into account their team being one member down already, having Thor return early was probably proving to be a blessing in disguise. Clint helpfully ignored his own mental play on words by placing "god" and "blessing in disguise" in the same sentence and kept walking.

He knows Steve is still at the Tower, his access restricted to only a few floors of the upper levels. He also knows that Natasha had programmed JARVIS into guard dog mode to keep an eye on him while the others were out. It was for the best really; he'd caught a glimpse of him on his way past the medical wing in the helicarrier and Steve honestly looked like a plague victim. He didn't know all the specifics of whatever kind of germ was affecting him but it looked like it was really putting him through the wringer whatever it was. Bruce had seemed pretty confident that Steve wasn't about to go belly up anytime soon though so at least there was that.

Clint rounds the corner of the next block, sidestepping a line of people waiting along the side of the building that was passing out cases of bottled water. Each building is heavily guarded to prevent the crowds from getting out of control and both SWAT and S.H.I.E.L.D agents were positioned on either side of the street for just such an occasion. The last update Clint had heard was that the pipes should be reopened and functional by the next morning which meant life could go back to normal relatively quickly. It was something to hope for at least.

The Tower comes into view at the end of the street and Clint crosses over to the other sidewalk casually. With a good majority of the roads on this side of town blocked or at least somewhat obscured by barricades, it made navigating traffic much easier. Business was still going on as usual, just not quite to the bustling pace the city was used to. No water meant no plumbing and no showers and as it turned out, most people weren't all that inclined to be seen in public when they hadn't been able to shower or bathe in a few days. Less people on the streets made their jobs easier though so Clint couldn't really complain.

He pulls out his key card and walks across the empty lobby to the elevators. It was odd for the front lobby of the Tower to be so empty but he knew Tony had sent all of his employees home for their own good until everything returned to normal. Still, it feels a bit eerie with all the empty desks and glass windows; like a state of the art ghost town in the middle of New York.

The elevator opens silently and Clint steps in, pushing the button for the top floor and stepping back as the doors slide closed and the car begins to rise. It usually takes between 5-10 minutes to get to the top floor of the Tower on a regular workday, the car constantly stopping on different floors to let passengers on and off. Today, the car manages to reach the top floor in just under a minute, not stopping once during the entire ride up. The doors swish open with the soft rotating of gears and cables and Clint steps out into the main living room of the Tower.

Tony had taken it upon himself to design a section of the Tower for each Avenger, complete with a bedroom, kitchen, and even a training room in each wing. Each section resembled a miniature apartment and the upper levels of the Tower were so large that invasion of personal space never became an issue. There was a community living room and kitchen in the dead center of the upper floor, with large glass windows that opened up out to the city and enough gleaming chrome and granite to make any modernist jealous. More times than not, they all ended up in the big living room at the end of the day. Sure, they all liked their privacy as much as the next person but sometimes it was nice just to sit all together without a constant threat of destruction hanging over their heads. Well, that was the case at least until they had Xbox night and the atmosphere could go from friendly competition to outright bloodshed in a little under thirty seconds. And, being the elite group of heroes and assassins that they were, when someone shouts "I WILL DESTROY YOU!" at the top of their lungs while playing Halo…well, its actually considered a pretty legitimate threat.

Clint figures that if Steve is anywhere, he'd more than likely be in the main living room because it has the best view of the city. He walks into living room quietly and is just about to call out to see where everyone is when he's nearly bowled over by Thor. Clint staggers in surprise and is caught easily by the god's hand catching his wrist. "Whoa…easy there big guy, where's the fire?"

Thor frowns deeply for a moment, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "I have seen no flames in this tower."

Clint resists the urge to roll his eyes; he'd been slowly but surely teaching Thor modern phrases and colloquialisms but he tended to forget how literal the Asgardian took everything at certain times. "No, I mean what's your hurry? What's wrong?"

The god frowns again, more deeply if possible, and glances back in the direction of the hallway. "Our good Captain's condition has deteriorated rather rapidly since my arrival and I am deeply concerned for his health. I fear I lack the hands of a healer and thus am quite useless during his plight."

Clint feels his own jaw setting in a hard line as he sees the genuine concern in the taller man's eyes. So much for Steve being stable…

"Okay, we'll take care of it, alright?" He says, trying his best to placate the troubled god while quelling his own concern as well. He didn't know the first thing about dealing with super soldiers infected with bioengineered bacteria and his bedside manner was terrible. Natasha had said Thor needed his help but honestly, what could he do that a freakin' lightning god couldn't? He was just about to suggest calling in the medical staff from the helicarrier when there was a noise somewhere between a crash and a thud down the hall. There's a simultaneous cry of "Steve!" from both of them and before they realize it, they're both running down the hall in the direction of the noise.

Clint expected to find a lot of things behind that door. He expected to find Steve unconscious or possibly dead on the floor, too far gone for them to do anything. He expected to find him laying in a pool of blood from cracking his head against the floor and fracturing his skull. He even somewhat half-expected to find him trying to make a break for it through the window without them noticing. What he didn't expect was to find Steve Rogers, super soldier extraordinaire, hunched over the toilet, puking his guts up and half covered in a shower curtain.

Steve just manages to quell a gag as he looks up, eyes locking with Clint's for a brief second. He looks awful, his skin pale and covered in a thin sheet of sweat. His eyes are bloodshot and the one hand he has gripping the edge of the toilet is white-knuckled and bloodless. He manages a very weak smile, which looks a whole hell of a lot more like a grimace, and waves at Clint with his free hand. "Hey Clint…when'd you get back?" He winces a bit and looks down at the shower curtain pooled around him on the floor. "I think I broke the shower curtain."

Clint chances a glance at the shower and feels a wince of his own. Steve hadn't just broken the shower curtain; he'd broken the rod, the fixtures connecting it to the wall, and even part of the wall on his way down. "Jesus man, what the hell were you trying to do? A trapeze act?"

Steve frowns and shakes his head, looking back toward the destruction of the shower quietly. "I was trying to stand up…I lost my balance…"

Clint feels any snappy comeback he might have had for that response die in his throat because _damn_, that was quite possibly the most pathetic thing he'd ever heard Steve say. Here he was on the bathroom floor, Captain freakin' America himself, and he couldn't even stand up on his own without using (or breaking) the shower curtain for support. It was ironic in a twisted, cosmic sort of way but Clint found he had no desire to laugh.

He steps into the bathroom, doing his absolute best to block out the smell of bile and stomach acid that still fills the air, and crouches down in front of Steve. The kid looks absolutely terrible, there's no doubt about that. Clint finds the description "death warmed over" has never been more accurate than in this moment. "Geez…this thing is really putting you through the wringer, huh?"

Steve tries to smile but it still looks like a cringe. "You could say that." The words just barely leave his mouth before he's hunching forward again and retching painfully into the bowl of the toilet. It's a deep, twisting sound that comes all the way from the core and shakes him from the inside out and Clint finds himself wincing in sympathy. He looks away, giving Steve the privacy to heave up his liver without the assistance of prying eyes, and catches a glimpse of Thor still hovering in the door of the bathroom.

The god's eyes are dark with concern and distress and he's watching Steve fearfully the same way a mother watches her sick child. His eyes meet Clint's and he holds his gaze. "Will he live?"

Clint almost laughs at the question because yeah, even though it feels like you're dying when you're in the middle of gagging up everything you've eaten in the past few days, throwing up is not fatal (usually). Still, he wonders if Thor has ever actually witnessed anyone on earth engaging in the act of hailing praise to the porcelain gods. Did people on Asgard throw up? Huh, good question…he should ask about that later when Steve wasn't going for gold in the bulimic Olympics right beside him. Besides, there's a very real look of fear and concern in Thor's eyes and Clint can tell this has shaken him more than he'd probably readily admit.

He smiles and gives him a reassuring nod in response. "Yeah, big guy. He'll be fine. Just dealing with the not so glamorous side of being sick."

Thor is still hovering in the doorway, looking like he's torn between going in or staying back to give them both space. "What can I do?"

Clint thinks for a minute because really, there's not much that can be done for vomiting other than just letting that person's body expel everything it can and leaving it on empty. Still, Thor is worried and is desperate to help in anyway he can so Clint gives in and reaches into his pocket to pull out a piece of paper. His search comes up empty save for a wadded napkin in the bottom of his pocket but it's better than nothing at all. He finds a pen in the other pocket and quickly jots something down across the top of the napkin. When he's done, he stands and walks over to the god, handing him the napkin.

"Here," he says as he passes the napkin over to him. "There's a drug store right down the street that should still be open. Go inside and ask the pharmacist for Bismuth subsalicylate, they'll know what you're talking about. Get that and some ginger ale and then come back here."

Thor nods, reading over the short list carefully. "Will these items help him?"

Clint nods. "Those are the absolute best cures on earth for this type of illness."

"Then I shall delay not a moment longer," Thor says, stepping out of the doorway and walking down the hall toward the door. Clint hears the elevator doors open and close from down that hall and suddenly the tower is silent again.

"Sir," JARVIS' voice drifts through the walls above him and Clint finds himself looking up expectantly like he's suddenly going to see him. "Did you really just send Master Thor to the pharmacy for Pepto-Bismol?"

"Yep."

"Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but that errand was entirely unnecessary. Ms. Potts keeps all of the medicine cabinets in the Tower fully stocked at all times."

Clint just smirks and shrugs. "True, but it gives him something to do to take his mind off of things." He walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator, pulling out one of the last bottles of water stored in the very back of the shelf and tucking it under one arm. "Plus, he wants to help and sending him on an errand like that makes him feel like he's accomplished something."

"Ah, very good sir." The AI's voice fades off and Clint turns and walks back into the bathroom to find Steve resting his head on one arm, eyes squeezed shut and looking just as miserable as before. He lifts his head just a tiny bit when Clint comes back in and sits down against the edge of the tub.

"I'm pretty sure I just threw up something I ate back in 1945..."

"Gross."

"Mhmm…" he mumbles miserably, reaching up with one hand and pushing the lever to empty the bowl.

Clint frowns and looks him up and down, taking in the sweats/hoodie/sock combination and the bundle of red fabric tucked protectively in Steve's lap. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the material looks an awful lot like the stuff used to make Thor's cape. It takes him another minute to realize that Thor wasn't wearing his cape when he left the Tower. Clint manages to put two and two together rather quickly but decides not to comment on the matter. Instead, he settles for more neutral territory. "Dude, how long have you been in here?"

Steve frowns like the question is something that requires serious consideration. "What time is it?"

"3:47."

"Uh…an hour maybe? I'm not really sure…everything got kinda hazy there for a while." His face contorts for a second and Clint thinks he's about to throw up again but all Steve does is swallow thickly and shake his head. "God…I always hated throwing up as a kid…"

Clint nods empathetically and rummages around through the cabinet beneath the sink. "Yeah, its definitely not something I ever looked forward to." He retrieves a wash cloth from one of the shelves and hands both it and the bottled water to Steve. Steve smiles weakly and takes them but he doesn't really seem to know what to do with either of them. He sets the water down on the ground next to him and Clint really wants to push him to take a drink but knows it will probably just come right back up. Steve turns his attention to the wash cloth instead and fidgets with it for a few seconds. He unfolds it, then refolds it, then finally just wads it in his hands and clings to it so he can have something physical to hold onto. Its that movement right there that hits Clint harder than anything else.

Steve is crumpled and miserable on the bathroom floor, bundled in a hoodie and half a shower curtain, and he looks so much like a kid its almost too much to take. For the strong, confident persona he put on in front of the public, it was easy to forget that Steve was just a kid when he graduated from boot camp to national hero overnight. Clint knew he was young (what, 22? 23 tops?) but he never looked it; Steve was always so stoic and detached when he was wearing that red, white, and blue suit that it was easy to forget he really was the youngest member of their team.

To be honest, Clint had been a bit wary about accepting Steve as their leader in the beginning. He was used to working alone, used to taking orders from no one but himself and sometimes Fury, and then to have Captain America himself come in an take control of their team? Well, that just didn't really sit all that well with him in the beginning. Captain America was a relic in his eyes; a hero, yes, but one that got all of his training and military experience seventy years ago. Things had changed, the world had changed, but Captain America hadn't. He still led them all like they were his soldiers on the frontlines in Germany or in the trenches on the battlefield. He knew that he and Tony had clashed pretty violently when they first met and, if he's honest with himself, Clint doesn't blame Tony for lashing out. Clint didn't really like Captain America but Steve Rogers wasn't so bad so he focused on that instead.

Captain America and Steve Rogers were like night and day images of each other, polar opposites and yet forced to coexist in one form. Where Captain America was brave and in command, Steve Rogers was soft spoken and a little bit shy. Captain America could be sent to the frontlines and told to lead an army to the very gates of Hell and he'd do it without complaint; Steve Rogers liked to sketch ducks in Central Park and volunteered at the Soup Kitchen on the weekends for God's sake. Steve blushed a lot, got flustered easily when an attractive woman came up to speak to him, and was generally just a goofy, shy kid from Brooklyn who had a superhero alter ego he slipped into whenever the world was in danger. He was a good listener, protective of his teammates to an almost unhealthy degree, and was a constant, stable presence in the Tower. Clint liked Steve; he was like the ninety-year-old younger brother he'd never had.

He sighs and abandons his perch on the side of the tub and drops down onto the floor next to Steve, stealing away the shower curtain and dropping into the bottom of the bathtub; Tony can bitch about it later. He untangles the red fabric of Thor's cape from around Steve's legs and re-covers him with it, tucking the corners down toward the floor. He takes the wadded wash cloth from Steve's hands and pours a small amount of the water on it, handing it back to him when its sufficiently damp. Steve still doesn't seem to know was to do with it but its cool and its damp and it seems to cause just the smallest amount of relief when he goes back to holding it.

"You know, I got food poisoning really bad once when I was a kid," Clint starts, leaning his head back against the wall and looking up at the white-tiled ceiling. "I was sick for about four days; I actually threw up so much that I strained all the muscles in my back and I couldn't walk. I honestly thought I had meningitis and was gonna die."

Steve lets a sort of croaked laugh and shakes his head. "That sounds awful."

"Mmm…" Clint nods slightly, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Learned my lesson about eating three day old sushi though."

That's the trigger and Steve is immediately heaving into the toilet again, shoulder hunched and trembling as each retch shakes him from the inside out. Clint winces and reaches out, awkwardly patting his back and trying to offer some kind of comfort because it just sounds awful. Its like Steve is trying to throw up bits of his spinal cord and everything else he has left in his body. Seriously, there can't be that much left by this point.

"Jeez , Steve…what did you eat?" Clint asks before he can stop himself. He knows food is the absolute last thing someone wants to think about when they're hunched over a toilet gagging up everything in their stomach but the words tumble out before he can stop them.

Steve gags and coughs a few times, spits and then shudders all the way down to his toes. "Ugh…I didn't eat anything…I made tea about an hour ago…that was it…"

Clint frowns and takes the wash cloth from his limp fingers again, unfolding it and shaking out the wrinkles before refolding it and laying it across the back of Steve's neck. Steve shivers a bit but doesn't move away from his position over the bowl. "Well, whatever it was is forming an outright rebellion against the rest of your body."

Steve coughs miserably and drops his head back onto his arm, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow. "If I offer you all the money in my wallet…will you shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery…?"

The archer laughs a bit and pats him on the shoulder gently. "Sorry kid, no can do. It'd be pretty hard to explain my reasoning's behind putting an arrow in Captain America. Besides, I think Fury would be pretty pissed if I shot you."

"Fury's a jerk."

Clint wants to quote him on that so bad it hurts but he keeps his mouth shut. He can feel Steve's muscles tense and go rigid beneath his hand as his body quells the urge to be sick again and he frowns in sympathy. Vomiting is quite possibly one of the most debilitating things in the world in his opinion and its not something he would wish on anyone. "Think you can drink some water?"

"It'll come right back up," Steve mumbles miserably, his voice echoing a bit against the porcelain beneath his head.

"Yeah, but dehydration is a bitch," Clint points out, unscrewing the cap of the water bottle and offering it to Steve. "Trust me, that'll knock you down almost as fast and its just as miserable."

Steve lifts his head just a tiny bit and looks at the water bottle dubiously like it contains some kind of foul substance he wants to keep as far away from him as possible. Finally, he reaches out and takes the proffered water bottle, taking a small sip and swishing it around in his mouth thoughtfully before spitting it into the toilet bowl. Satisfied with that, he takes another sip and swallows carefully. When it doesn't make an immediate reappearance, he takes a few more small sips, timing them with a few seconds in between to make sure it doesn't bounce back to the surface.

Clint is eying him carefully, looking him up and down critically the same way he does a target he has in his sights. He looks for weaknesses, obvious chinks in an all too human armor that would make his job easier. Normally, Steve doesn't have any; everything about him looks like it was carved away carefully by one of the great Greek sculptures during the Hellenistic period and left with a little inscription that says 'this is what the male body should look like.' Right now though, Steve looks like he could be knocked over by a feather and blink. His eyes are bloodshot, face flushed and pink from exertion, and he looks like he wants nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die. Clint can't say that he blames him.

"Maybe we should take you back to the helicarrier," he says, frowning as he continues his visual rundown. "I think you might have left a little earlier than you should have."

Steve shakes his head slowly and closes his eyes. "No, I'll be fine…really…"

"Steve, seriously-"

"Clint, please," Steve pleads and there's just a very tiny hint of desperation in his voice. "I'll be fine, I promise…just…please?" His words fade off and Clint is nearly certain there's something he's leaving out but he knows when not to pry for information. He'd seen a copy of Steve's medical record before the serum and the kid had been an absolute wreck; he'd probably seen the insides of enough hospitals to settle him for a lifetime. Clint feels a tiny protective surge flare up inside because Steve is practically begging him not to be taken back and its just another nail in the coffin for him. If the idea of going back to the medical wing of the helicarrier is more abhorrent to him than the misery of the sickness ravaging his body at the moment, far be it from him to force him to go back.

"Okay," the archer sighs, sitting back a little against the wall. "I'm not going to force you to go back. But I swear, if you get any worse I will knock you over the head and drag you back against your will, kicking and screaming. Deal?"

Steve nods just slightly. "Deal."

Clint is just about to expound on his threat when the elevator doors swish open again and a loud, booming voice echoes into the hallway. "I have returned medicine and the ale of ginger!" Thor calls broadly, his thundering voice bouncing off of every wall.

Clint can't help but chuckle at the god's enthusiasm. Steve tries to laugh but it immediately turns into a gag and he's hunched over once again, face hidden in the crook of his arm and retching painfully into the toilet bowl. Clint winces and pats him on the shoulder gently. Its going to be a long night…

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**Haha, aww poor Steve =/ He'll get better soon, I promise!**


	7. Fatigue

**Ahhhh! *flail* Good God, you guys! I'm so sorry for the long gap between updates! O.o I've been going crazy with school lately and it has been draining a lot of my creative enegry =/ I'm a senior at my university so I'm taking a lot of writing/reading intensive classes right now combined with all the tests and papers and the college is like, "oh, you thought you had some free time to work on something other than school? Well think again!" And for some reason the college voice sounds a lot like James Earl Jones in my head...weird O.o Anyway, here's the next chapter! Only one more to go after this! :D**

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It takes two fingers, a knee, and the lid of a coffee cup but Coulson manages to wrestle the key card out of his pocket and swipe it at the door all without dropping the grocery bags tucked under both arms. He counts that as a pretty impressive accomplishment. The doors swish open softly and he steps into the empty top floor of the Tower. The living room feels warmer than usual, humid even, and there's an unusual silence that fills the air in the absence of people. There's a very different atmosphere in the Tower when it's empty of its usual collection of heroes and special agents. There's a shuffle somewhere off to his left and Coulson turns his head just in time to catch a mutter of words exchanged between two parties. Okay, so the Tower was _mostly_ empty but not completely. He still has to take into account the sick but no less stubborn super soldier and the fussing, equally stubborn personal assistant of Tony Stark that were currently holed up in the Tower. Coulson turns in the direction of the voices and walks down the hallway.

He finds Steve and Pepper in the kitchen, Steve slumped in a chair and Pepper doing her best mother-of-the-year impression while hovering over him. "Steve, you're sick. It's not the end of the world to admit that you don't feel well and need some help."

Steve shakes his head groggily and damn if he doesn't he look like he's been dragged through every circle of Hell twice. His face is pale and covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his normally sharp blue eyes are dull and hazy from illness. His whole body reads 'miserable' and he's slumped in the chair he's sitting in, shoulders sagging and limbs heavy. "Pepper, really, it's not a big deal." Coulson is pretty sure Pepper misses the very minute sway in posture as Steve speaks but he certainly doesn't. "I appreciate the concern, don't get me wrong, but it's really not necessary. Besides, it's nearly midnight; you should be at home asleep instead of fusing over me.

Pepper narrowed her eyes briefly and shook her head. "You and I have very different interpretations of the word 'necessary', Steve Rogers. Before Clint left he told me you had been throwing up for close to two hours and if I'm not mistaken, you were confined to the medical wing of the helicarrier before that."

Steve shook his head in response. "Yeah, but I'm pretty sure the worst of this is over by now. I'm fine, really." As if to prove his point, Steve tries to stand up from the chair he'd been slumped in. And, as if to prove how incredibly _not_ fine he was, he immediately sagged and nearly pitched forward. He more than likely would have taken a direct header into the edge of the table had both Coulson and Pepper not lunged forward at the exact same time and caught either arm.

Pepper gives Coulson an appreciative smile before turning her attention back to Steve. "Yeah, you're completely fine. Last I checked, 'fine' could stand for longer than five seconds without toppling to the floor like a Jenga tower."

"What's Jenga?" Steve asks breathlessly as he's righted by Coulson and Pepper on either side.

"An excuse for adults to play with a tower of blocks without feeling like they need counseling," Coulson explains as they manage to get Steve back into the chair without him falling again. Keeping one hand on the younger man's shoulder, Coulson just manages to bit back a wince as the scar tissue from his injury pulls a bit beneath the skin. "Let's not do that again, shall we?"

"Sorry," Steve says and there's a slight flush of embarrassment that crosses his pale cheeks at being seen in a moment of such weakness.

Pepper's expression softens a bit and she just shakes here head. "Steve, you don't have to apologize. We all get sick and it's never enjoyable but you don't have to be sorry for it. It's not like you planned for this to happen."

Steve manages a soft, breathy laugh and shakes his head. "Nope, definitely didn't plan for anything like this…I'm going to try to make it my life's mission to avoid it all costs from now on too."

Satisfied that Steve isn't about to slide out of the chair again, Coulson turns back into the hallway to retrieve the grocery bags he'd dumped on the floor in his race to get to Steve. Luckily nothing was breakable but it kind of diminished his earlier pride of not dropping them while trying to get through the door.

Clint had called him just after they'd gotten the issue to report back to Fury and had filled him in on the details of Steve's condition. He knew Pepper would be there to take their place but it never hurt to have two sets of hands to help out in case it was needed. Besides, it felt nice to be able to return the favor to Steve after everything he'd done for him after his injury.

When he'd first woken up in the hospital, Steve was the first one he saw. The soldier was just sitting there by his bedside, silently reading a copy of _The Old Man and the Sea _and occupying the only chair in the room. Steve had seen him, smiled warmly, and asked how he was feeling. If Coulson wasn't so sure he would have popped some kind of really important stitches from that hole in his chest, he would have laughed. It was so surreal to have Captain America sitting at his bedside, asking him how he felt; it was like a dream he would have had when he was a kid. Granted, his dreams more than likely wouldn't have ended with him being stabbed through the lung with interstellar scepter from a deranged Norse god but that was a bit of a non-issue at this point in time.

Coulson had stayed in the hospital for close to two full weeks after he woke up while his injuries healed and Steve had come to see him every day. Sometimes they'd talk about everything that came to mind, sometimes they wouldn't say anything at all. It was nice and it definitely made the hospital stay that much more bearable. Steve even signed all of the prized collector's cards Coulson had held on to over the years and asked him about each one: the history, the year it came out, how long he'd had it, everything. At first it had been a bit awkward to reveal how much of a diehard fan he was growing up; how he'd known every stat and tidbit of information about Captain America that was released to the public. But Steve didn't appear uncomfortable or freaked out by information; he seemed touched by the fact that he'd been such a large part in Coulson's life as a child. It had easily been one of the most remarkable days of Coulson's life.

Now they were here and the roles were reversed and Coulson was determined to repay the favor tenfold. He scoops the groceries back into the bags and hauls them into the kitchen, Pepper intercepting him halfway there to take one of the heavier bags out of his left hand. Apparently she'd seen the wince he'd tried so hard to hide earlier and wasn't letting him off the hook as easily as he's hoped.

They laid the bags out on the nearest countertop and begin emptying them one at a time. It's mostly boxes of crackers and tea, items that wouldn't be too harsh for a sick person to handle but would provide at least some nutrition and a form of hydration. Coulson was relatively certain Tony would have something in the pantries resembling crackers but he couldn't be sure. Pepper had to literally remind him to eat sometimes so it was debatable whether or not crackers actually existed inside Stark Tower without prior notice.

"How does it look out there?" Steve asks from behind them, having turned just slightly in his chair to glance out toward the window. He'd apparently given up trying to stand or move or do anything other than just sit there and hope like hell gravity didn't decide to have another field day with him.

"Well, not great to be honest," Coulson says as he tucks a few boxes of tea into one of the cabinets. "The water treatment facility managed to decontaminate all their tanks but they want to run the water through one more purification before they reopen the pipes. They'll be up and running by the morning but some of citizens are getting a bit hostile and started causing some problems downtown. That's why Fury called in his orders; he needs everyone who's fit for duty to be on deck until the pipes reopen to prevent total chaos."

"He didn't want you down there?" Pepper asks, dropping a piece of bread into the toaster and pushing down the lever. "I thought you were Fury's right-hand man."

"Well, I'm not technically cleared for active duty yet," Coulson answers with a shrug, flipping on the kettle and pulling a coffee mug out of the cabinet. "I'm on medical restrictions until sometime in November so I'm considered to be in the 'unable' category for this order."

"Me too," Steve mumbles and his voice is a bit more muffled than it had been before. Both Coulson and Pepper turn to see him with one arm propped on the table, chin pillowed against the crook of his elbow. If possible, his posture looks even more slumped that it had before and he looks like he's literally deflating right in front of them. As further testament to how awful he feels, Steve doesn't even seem to be aware of the fact that he's slowly wilting onto the table like a plant with no light.

Pepper frowns in concern when she looks at him. "Steve, honey, maybe you should go lay down."

Steve shakes his head slightly. "No its okay, I'm fine."

Pepper rolls her eyes at the response. "We've had this 'fine' discussion already. Besides, I think if you slump down in that chair any further you're going to end up on the floor."

Coulson takes that as his opportunity to cross the kitchen and offer Steve his assistance. "Come on, soldier, we're moving you into the living room."

Steve looks momentarily at a loss and his eyes land on Coulson's chest. "But your shoulder-"

"Is fine," Coulson cuts him off easily, still offering Steve his hand. "I can handle the fifteen foot walk from here to the living room, trust me." When Steve hesitates, still unsure, Coulson just sighs and shakes his head. "Come on Steve, into the living room. That's an order, soldier."

That seems to trigger something deeply ingrained in Steve's fatigue addled brain and he makes the attempt to stand up without putting too much pressure on Coulson's injured side. When he sways unevenly upon standing upright, he relents to the offered support and very slowly makes his way into the living room with Coulson by his side. The short walk exhausts him more than he anticipated and he collapses onto the nearest couch, breathing heavily and face ashen.

"Jeez…I didn't think it would be that hard to walk from the kitchen to the living room," Steve mumbles, propping one elbow on his knee and dropping his forehead into his open palm.

Coulson just smiles and pats him on the shoulder. "When I was in the hospital I couldn't even sit up on my own, let alone stand. I won't hold this over your head."

Steve smiles weakly and nods. "Thanks for the help."

"Anytime," Coulson tells him, pushing the shoulder he had his hand on just enough to make Steve sag backward against the couch cushions. Steve doesn't resist and simply sinks back and allows himself to be engulfed in the soft leather cushions all around him. Satisfied that he's not going anywhere in the next few minutes, Coulson turns and makes his way back into the kitchen to meet up with Pepper.

She's just plucking the toasted piece of bread from the toaster and placing it on a small plate when the kettle begins to whistle noisily. Coulson flips the switch off and removes the kettle from the warmer, filling the coffee mug he'd pulled down earlier with boiling water and dropping a tea bag into it.

"He really doesn't look good," Pepper comments quietly from beside him and Coulson looks over to see her glancing toward the living room where Steve had been deposited on the couch.

Coulson has to agree with her observation as he places the kettle back where it belongs. "Yeah, looks like this thing is really wiping him out."

"I wish the others would get back soon," Pepper says, plucking a knife from the silverware drawer and cutting the toast in half. "I want Bruce to take another look at him and make sure the worst of this thing has passed. Super soldier or not, I don't think Steve can take much more of this. He looks like he's one step away from a morgue."

It was a gruesome thought, one neither of them wanted to think about, but it's was true. Steve looked awful, it was just that simple. He looked like a blink could knock him over and Coulson could honestly say he'd seen dead agents with more color in their cheeks than Steve did now. In all honesty, he really should be back on the helicarrier and hooked up to an IV to keep him from getting dehydrated but if Steve was anywhere near as punchy about hospitals as Coulson was, he knew that would be the last place he'd want to be. Spending longer than a day confined to a hospital bed was enough to make anyone go a bit batty and Coulson is pretty sure Steve would be included in that category. Besides, the others would be back soon and they could get Bruce's opinion on the matter then.

"Yeah, but it might be worse trying to take him back in the condition he's in right now," Coulson explains as he scoops the tea bag out of the mug with a spoon and drops it in the nearest trash can. "Kid can barely walk on his own and with the city still on lock down and every available S.H.I.E.L.D agent downtown, we can't really call for a pick up right now either."

Pepper nods but her eyes are still troubled and her mouth is set in an unhappy frown. "I know but its just…its weird, you know? I mean its weird seeing him like this; its like if Superman suddenly caught the galaxy's worst cold and couldn't shake it."

Coulson smirks and nods. "Yeah, I understand. And trust me, I don't like it anymore than you do. Guess we'll just have to keep an eye on him until the others get back." He picks up the mug while Pepper picks up the plate and both of them start back into the living room where Steve is still slumped against the couch.

Coulson sets the mug down on the end table and Pepper follows his example, pausing just long enough to brush the back of her wrist across Steve's forehead. Her hand lingers for a second before she removes it with a shake of her head. "Still a little warm but nothing too serious. You still look awful though," she mutters as she grabs one of the throws from the back of the couch and lays it across Steve's legs.

"I feel about the same," Steve answers with a weak smile. "Thank you for everything you guys have done. I really appreciate it."

Pepper just laughs and shakes her head. "Steve you don't have to thank us, we're glad to help. Besides, you make a better patient than Tony so I'd pick you over him any day of the week."

"Don't tell me Tony turns into a big baby when he's sick," Coulson says with a small smirk.

"Oh my God, the worst!" Pepper groans with a laugh. "He caught the flu one time a few years ago and you would have sworn he was patient zero for the plague of the 21st century. He was absolutely pitiful for one whole week and he milked it for all he was worth." She picks up the plate from the end table and sets it in Steve's lap. "Seriously, he treated sniffles like they were the harbingers of imminent death."

Steve laughs softly but the smile is thin and it just makes him look tired. "So I take it Tony doesn't get sick very often then?"

Pepper shakes her head and takes a seat on the loveseat caddy corner to the couch. "No, thankfully Tony is generally pretty healthy. I don't know how; he lives off of Red Bull and jelly beans most of the time and doesn't get nearly as much sleep as he probably should but yeah, he somehow manages to stay relatively healthy for the most part. When he does get sick though…" Pepper doesn't finish the sentence but the heaving sigh is enough of an indication to see where it was going.

Steve smiles and picks at the toast cautiously like its covered in glass shards. "I used to get sick a lot as a kid…never really an experience I enjoyed. One of the perks of the serum was that it boosted my immune system and kept me from catching ever cold and flu virus that I came in contact with. Well, almost all of them…" he mumbles with a weak hand gesture.

Coulson watches him carefully from across the room, taking in the pale skin and heavy fatigue that seems to be dragging Steve down further and further with each passing second. He'd seen one of the old files they'd kept on him before he joined the military, the folder literally filled with all the rejected medical records Steve had accumulated before Erskine passed him through. Before the serum, Steve's physical condition was downright pitiful even on the best of days and Coulson could only imagine how often he'd been sick as a child. Being back in that condition after being in top physical form for so long had to be more debilitating than any of them thought.

"You don't have to eat the toast if you don't want it," Pepper tells him as Steve continues to pick at the bread like he should be wearing a hazmat suit. "I just thought it might help settle your stomach a bit."

"You do have to drink the tea though," Coulson chimes in from across the room, catching both Steve and Pepper's attention. "Your body is running on nothing right now and dehydration will just make it that much worse."

Steve smiles a little bit but concedes to Coulson's suggestion and picks up the mug from the end table. "Clint told me something similar earlier."

"Well its true," Coulson replies with a slight nod. "I've experienced dehydration before and trust me when I say its awful. Better to take preventative steps now than try to fix the problem later." He nods toward the mug in response. "I want you to finish that before you do anything else; the tea is weak enough so it shouldn't upset your stomach."

Steve nods and takes a few tentative sips, balancing the mug in his knees in between each drink. He still looks absolutely miserable and ready to fall over at any minute but the tea is bringing back just a tiny bit of color to his cheeks and for now that all any of them can ask for.

Time passes slowly, shifting from pm to am, and the night stretches on around them. It takes Steve nearly an hour to finish the tea but when he does Coulson is satisfied and lets the matter drop. Pepper refuses to keep the TV on the cycling news reels about the city without water so she switches it to some show on the History Channel explaining how they build fishing boats in Alaska. It all very quiet and serene and it would almost be easy to forget that the city was nearly in shambles beneath their feet.

Steve sags down further and further into the couch, his body literally giving up the fight to stay upright and letting gravity get heavier with each passing second. He fighting sleep though, forcing his tired, glassy eyes to stay open like he's just waiting for something to happen that would require his assistance. It's a struggle, one Steve plans on winning at all costs, but its not helping his current state at all.

Coulson sees this from his place across the room and shakes his head with a small smile. Stubborn till the end, this one. "Steve, seriously, go to sleep. We'll wake you up if anything happens but for now the best thing for you to do is to get some rest."

Pepper nods and chimes in. "The others will be back in the morning and you can wring all the details from them that you like then. But for now just get some sleep."

Steve looks like he's ready to protest but with both Coulson and Pepper staring him down and almost challenging him to object, he relents with a small sigh. "You'll wake me up if anything happens?"

"Promise," Pepper says with a nod and Coulson follows her example.

Steve still seems unsure but realizes he literally can't fight the fatigue anymore. With a soft sigh, he closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the couch cushions, and falls asleep almost instantly.

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**Huzzah! Tony's chapter is up next; I kinda wanted to save the best for last, you know? ^.- More to come soon! :D**


	8. Dehydration

**Hey guys! Thank you so much for following along with my story and all of your wonderful reviews, they really helped push me along when I was dragging! Thanks for being so awesome guys, you rock my socks! :D**

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"In and out of the hospital twice in the past three days…I think that's a new record even for our crisis prone team's standards."

"What can I say? I'm an overachiever…" comes the groggy reply and Tony narrows his eyes. Steve is once again laid up in a hospital bed in the medical wing of the helicarrier, IVs hooked to his arms, and if its possible, he looks even worse than he did the last time Tony saw him. His face is drawn and pale, features strained from exhaustion, and he looks substantially thinner than he usually does. Tony chalks it up to the bacteria that's finally starting to burn its way out of his system but it doesn't really make anything better.

"Yeah, well maybe you should look into a new hobby," Tony mumbles, picking an errant piece of lint off the sleeve of his shirt. "Something like knitting or bowling or decorative basket weaving. Anything other than playing ping pong in the hospital wing; seriously, Steve, its not healthy.

Steve smiles weakly and blinks up at the ceiling. "I'll keep that in mind," he replies slowly, his voice still muzzy and thick from sleep and disuse. The more he talks, the drier his throat feels and he's pretty sure he should prevent that as much as possible. He's dehydrated enough as it is, no need to make it any worse than necessary.

"By the way, you owe Pepper a major apology for nearly giving her a heart attack. I thought she was going to have a nervous breakdown when they couldn't get you to wake up."

Steve flinches and frowns up at the textured ceiling. He didn't really remember what had happened between here and the Tower; all he remembered was falling asleep in the living room with Pepper and Coulson and then waking up here with a very concerned Bruce Banner hovering over him. He tried to think back as far as he could but everything got kind of hazy and murky the harder he tried so he gave up trying to figure it out himself and accepted the information he gathered from both Bruce and Tony in passing.

"Sorry," he mumbles heavily, guilt pressing down on him like an invisible weight. "I thought I was finally over this."

Tony shrugs one shoulder and looks toward the door as a nurse passes by. "Well, apparently not quite as over it as you originally thought; your little mini coma proved that point pretty quickly." He turns his attention back to Steve, once again taking notice of his exhausted features. "Bruce thinks you're on the last leg though, should be back to your noble, patriotic self in a day or two."

Steve smiles tiredly and nods. "That's a relief; I'm tired of sitting on the sidelines during all the fun."

A brief silence passes between them, filled only by the continuous beeping and whirring of machines hooked up to Steve. Tony shifts uncomfortably in his chair, crossing his arms, then his legs, then letting them both go and shifting again. Finally, he can't stand it anymore and he sighs, sitting forward a bit and resting his elbows on his knees.

"So apparently Hallmark doesn't make a "sorry-I-let-you-play-bobbing-for-apples-in-a-contaminated-water-tank-and-effectively-let-you-get-exposed-to-the-plague-of-the-21st-century" get well soon card. I called their main office; it can't be done."

Steve turns to look at him and the movement is much slower and takes more time than it normally would thanks to the muscles in his neck and back still being stiff from his recent bout of vomiting.

Tony shifts under his gaze and he looks thoroughly uncomfortable with the admission. "Look, you were right, okay? I should have been there to help you, I should have listened; probably would have avoided this whole fiasco if I'd just listened to your orders and followed you to get Inman." He sighs heavily and looks at the wall, the machines, the ceiling; pretty much anywhere other than Steve. "I'm sorry Steve, I'm sorry that you took the fall because I didn't listen to you."

Steve smiles softly and shakes his head. "Tony, I don't blame you for this. Whatever Inman put in the water was what made me get sick, not you. Yeah, I was irritated that you didn't listen to me at first but I don't blame you for any of this." He stops to take a breath, swallowing thickly to give some relief to his dry throat. "You had a point about that bomb, you would have been better protected in your suit than Clint or Natasha." He shrugs slightly as he speaks. "I guess we both could have done things a bit differently in the end."

Tony stares at him incredulously for a minute, arms half-crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed. "You know, you're a real piece of work, Rogers," he grumbles irritably, sitting back against the hard plastic chair and shooting Steve a slight glare. "Why can't you just be mad at me like a normal person? Blame me for getting you into this mess and landing you with something that would make the CDC cringe? Jeez man, I can do blame and anger; I can't do this whole reverse-psychology, acceptance thing. Its freaking me out."

Steve just shakes his head again. "Why should I blame you for this? You didn't push me into that tank and to my knowledge you didn't do anything to purposefully expose me to the contaminated water. I jumped in there on my own accord; in all honesty this might have happened even if you had been there to back me up, so why should you take the blame for any of this?"

"Because I screwed up, okay?" Tony nearly shouts, frowning darkly and looking away from Steve again. "I screwed up and you paid the price. I'm not used to working with other people, Steve; I'm not used to this whole team dynamic that everyone seems so fond of." He sighs and shakes his head, running a hand through his disheveled hair and mussing it even more. "I spent a good majority of my life handling things on my own, watching my own back, so this whole relying on others and being part of a group is just weird for me. Hell, the only person I've really ever relied on has been Pepper and she was hired specifically to put up with my bullshit."

"Well, you know, having a team isn't an all bad thing," Steve counters quietly, a slightly distant look in his eyes. "I was part of team once and it really helped to have someone else to rely on when things got tough. It just made more sense to do things together than alone, you know?"

Tony scoffs but he seems contemplative, considering Steve's point silently.

"And if any of us ever made a mistake or got hurt in the line of duty, we'd all work together to fix it," Steve continues, catching the billionaire's attention and earning him another glare.

"And there you go, back to being Mr. Love and Tolerate. You're too nice for your own good, you know that? Its unhealthy."

Steve just smiles. "Have you ever heard the expression 'killing with kindness'?"

"Have you ever heard the expression 'I'm about to smack you over the head with an IV pole'?" Tony counters but there's no heat in his voice and his posture seems to relax a bit in the chair.

"No, can't say that I have," Steve mutters, shifting a bit in the bed and stopping when the IV tugs in his arm.

"It's a good expression, I use it a lot. You should look it up."

"I'll take your word for it."

Their conversation breaks off for a moment and both sit in companionable silence. Tony shifts positions in his chair again and Steve vaguely wonders how much of it is from the chair and how much of it is from the fact that Tony has probably consumed enough coffee to charge an entire college campus. His jaw is lined with stubble and there's a shadowy hint of dark circles forming beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. Steve had seen him forgo sleep for about two or three days in his lab and he always wondered how Tony could keep going for that long without passing out face down on his lab table. Tony doesn't seem at all bothered by the lack of sleep though; granted, he'll probably sleep for 16 hours straight once he finally does reach the last of his reserves but for now he looks just as alert as he usually does.

"Did the pipes get fixed?" Steve asks finally, breaking the silence between them. Its something he's been wondering about for about twenty minutes now.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Yes, Captain Righteous, the city has water again. Now would you quit worrying about everyone else and worry about yourself for once? The city is fine, we're all fine; everyone and everything is fine except you, Cap. Stop taking on the weight of the world for five minutes and relax, alright?"

Steve chuckles softly and shrugs. "Sorry, its just habit, you know?"

"Well stop it," Tony snaps but he doesn't sound angry or irritated; his voice holds a lingering hint of concern. "The world will not stop spinning while you get back on your feet. Considering you were unconscious for nearly ten hours and you've been soaking up fluids like a sponge for the past eight, I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that you're not going anywhere for at least another day and I can almost guarantee there won't be any kind cataclysmic disaster that requires your immediate attention in the next 24 hours."

"What if there is?" Steve asks, not to challenge or be annoying but because he's genuinely curious. What if something else happens when he's still stuck in the medical wing the team is called out again and they get in over their heads and run into something they can't get out of and-

"Dude, I can literally hear that hamster wheel spinning inside your head," Tony admonishes, fixing Steve with a slightly bemused, if not completely exasperated look. "You really don't know when to take a break, do you? Okay, well let me break it down for you then: if by some act of God or Congress, another city-threatening emergency arises in the next 24 hours that requires our services, you get to stay your patriotic ass in bed and let us handle it."

Steve frowns slightly and looks like he wants to protest but Tony forges on ahead. "You know why? Because that's what teams and friends do; at least that's what I'm told," Tony adds on in a quiet mutter. "That whole team spiel you just gave me applies double, if not triple, for you too, Cap. If one of us goes down, the rest step up to take their place; its that simple."

Steve tries to open his mouth again but Tony cuts him off just like before. "Yeah, I know, the idea of sitting out of anything while the innocence and virtue of the American people is at stake makes you cling to the ceiling like a cat in a flood but too bad. We've all stepped up in the past, whether one of us was injured or away or whatever the case was at the time. You drew the short straw this time but that just means we have to step up and take your place until you're back. And, God forbid, if anything happens in the next 24 hours then we're going out and you're staying here if Banner has to threaten to leave you with a giant, green body guard for extra measure."

Steve sighs heavily and leans back, suddenly exhausted. Just listening to Tony ramble wears him out and he's not even the one talking. He glances to the left to the nearly empty IV bag hooked to the pole next to him. He'd been hooked up to an IV since he got here and it seemed that his dehydration had only been exacerbated by the serum in his blood. With little to no fluids to work with thanks to Steve having purged everything in his system over the past two days, the severity of the dehydration and its debilitating side effects had been twice as bad as what they normally would have been had Steve been healthy. He'd been in and out of consciousness for a good majority of the day but he knew the medical staff had changed the bag hooked to his arm at least four times already. Tony had a point: he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"You drive a hard bargain, you know that?" Steve mutters dazedly, the warning hints of lingering exhaustion creeping into his voice and making his eyelids heavy.

"Its not a hard bargain, you're just stubborn," Tony shoots back but his tone is almost affectionate under the thick layer of sarcasm he always wraps his words in.

A knock at the door catches both men's attention and Bruce steps into the room. "Sorry, didn't mean the break up the conversation," he says with a small smile, crossing the room quietly and tinkering with the IV next to Steve. "How are you feeling, Steve?"

The younger man shrugs as much as he's able, which isn't a lot. "Tired mostly."

"Well, that's to be expected," the doctor replies as he finishes hooking a new saline drip onto the pole. "Dehydration usually has that effect on people." He turns back to Steve, checking his pulse with one hand and lightly pinching his arm with the other. He seems satisfied with the skin's elasticity and makes a note on a clip board next to the bed. "Well, the good news is your body is responding remarkably well to the IV's and as far as I can tell, the bacteria has burned its way out of your body completely. At this rate you should be fit to be released by tomorrow afternoon.

"So what's the bad news?" Tony asks, slumping back in his chair heavily.

"Well, he's going to have to stay here overnight," Bruce replies, giving Steve a slightly apologetic look before he continues. "Also, visiting hours are over for now." He nudges Tony's leg with his foot. "Steve needs some rest and you could probably do with a few hours of sleep as well."

"I'm fine," Tony insists though his assertion lacks its usual conviction.

"Mmhm," Bruce hums, catching one of Tony's arms and dragging him out of the chair. "Bed now, visiting later." He pauses at the door to dim the lights over the bed before he turns back to Steve. "Get some rest, okay Steve? I'll be back to check on you in a little bit."

Steve just smiles tiredly and nods, watching with a slightly amused expression as Bruce literally drags Tony, muttering and grumbling the whole time, from the room, closing the door softly behind them. Now that they're both gone and he's alone, Steve feels the full weight of exhaustion slam into him like a tidal wave and it feels like even blinking has become a chore. He allows his eyes to close, breathing slow and even, and within seconds, he's drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**OOOOO**

The first thing Steve becomes aware of when he wakes up is that its nighttime again. He's not exactly sure what time it is considering there's not a clock in his immediate line of sight but he can see the inky night sky outside the nearest window and its dark enough to convince him that its probably pretty late. The second thing he notices is that he feels better than he's felt in that past two days. He doesn't feel quite so weak and there's not that bone-deep ache that radiates all over his body from the inside out. Granted, he doesn't feel absolutely 100% right now, probably closer to 85%, but it's a definite improvement over how he's been feeling for the past few days. The last thing he's aware of is a heavy weight on the edge of his bed.

Steve turns his head to the side and sees Tony back in the chair he'd been in earlier, slumped down against the back of it with his arms crossed over his chest. His feet are stretched out to rest against the edge of the bed, one foot just barely brushing the edge of Steve's knee. He's sound asleep, snoring softly and completely oblivious to the fact that the other man is awake. Whether he snuck back in when Bruce wasn't looking or the scientist finally gave up and relented, Steve can't be sure. Either way, Tony is back in the room, sleeping deeply with his feet on Steve's bed.

Steve knew Tony probably still harbored a lot of guilt over his illness but he kind of hoped that wasn't the reason he's come back to the room. True, their relationship as both friends and teammates had been tumultuous from the beginning but they were both slowly beginning to understand one another's strengths and weaknesses and how to work with both. Tony was still cocky and arrogant and Steve was still stubborn and bossy but they were getting better at accepting these attributes of one another and preventing the resulting clash from being too outrageous. Tony needed Steve to reel him back when he got to full of himself and Steve needed Tony to knock him down a peg when he got a bit too demanding. They were light and dark, night and day, hot and cold, and they were beginning to form the bonds of a stronger friendship than either of them probably anticipated.

Steve smiles softly as Tony continues to snore on. It took some work but they were all beginning to trust each other, rely on each other, be a team. It's a nice thought; Steve hasn't had a team in a long time and it be nice to get some of that back. Tony shifts a bit in the chair beside the bed, his foot nudging Steve's knee slightly. Steve reaches down and rests his hand on the other man's foot lightly and Tony goes still, falling back asleep almost instantly from the gentle touch.

He's not sure how long they stay like that, Tony sleeping soundly and Steve listening to the gentle push and pull of his snores as he sleeps on. Eventually, Steve's eyes begin to grow heavy again, his body sinking back with the last tethers of lingering exhaustion. Keeping his hand resting gently on top of Tony's foot, he closes his eyes and allows himself to fall back into a deep, peaceful sleep.

* * *

**Hope you all enjoyed it! :D**


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